The Lamb
by At A Venture
Summary: Follow up to Divine Intervention. Buffy/Dean. Buffy/Castiel. Sam/Ruby. Plus Bobby and Willow. Buffy Summers and Dean Winchester are drawn into the apocalypse by an angel just following orders. Season 4 of SPN.
1. A Tourist in a Waking World

_Disclaimer: Supernatural and Buffy the Vampire Slayer aren't my creations. Boy, do I wish they were! Wouldn't that be cool? Anyway, Eric Kripke made Supernatural and Joss Whedon made Buffy and I'm just a crazy little fan with, clearly, too much time on her hands. The chapter titles of this fic all come from songs by Florence and the Machine, written and performed by Florence Welch. _

A/N: 3rd story in the Lifting the Veil series.

**The Lamb**

Written for the SNCross Big Bang 2010 Challenge

Art by satavaisa (livejournal... see link in my profile)

**Chapter 1: A Tourist in a Waking World**

The stage lights came up magically at ten past one, shining iridescent sparkles through the smoky bar. A few of the patrons shielded their eyes against the spectacle, breathing a collective sigh of relief when the drummer hustled up onto his platform. He sat directly in front of the spotlight, and the glow around his hulking body made him look oddly angelic. The grungy guitarist and shuffling bassist followed their band mate against the goofy screams of a few groupies. They rushed the stage, throwing up their skinny arms and waving them around as the scruffy boys with too-tight jeans and flannel shirts broke into a chaotic crash of sound some people might consider music.

Buffy Summers grabbed her ear plugs from an empty glass under the bar top and stuffed them in her ears. It was nothing against the band so much as the constant hum of the amplifier. Working in a bar with live acts made ear plugs a necessity, and sometimes the music was pretty terrible too. Okay, most of the time. This wasn't exactly a classy joint. Buffy stuffed a few bills in the cash drawer and sank out from behind the crowded bar top, away from the noisy patrons throwing their orders in her face. She preferred walking the room, remembering the drink orders as she passed by. The tips were better. The regulars knew her face, and the guys passing through never really forgot her.

"Hey! Buffy!" A man in the back raised his hand, a few crumpled bills sticking out of his clenched fingers. As she got closer, she recognized his face. He had soft blue eyes and a gentle, innocent smile. He didn't belong in Reno, and he definitely didn't belong in this bar. He kept coming back because he had feelings for a certain waitress. He beamed when she approached him, his whole body coming alive with passion, emotion. He'd been waiting to rescue her for almost a year, trying to yank her out of this rotten place. She'd never warmed up to him, never shown him an ounce of interest. It was a shock to him that she continued to remember his name.

"Billy," Buffy said stiffly, acknowledging the boy's presence. She took the money from him and stuck it in the pocket of her short black apron. There was no need to take his order. He always bought a light beer, slightly watered down at the tap, easy on the head. He didn't like to drink, but the bar had a two-drink minimum and cokes didn't count.

"Listen, Buffy," Billy shouted over the band, his voice coming across like a whimper. "You wanna… I mean, uh,"

"No," Buffy replied bluntly before he had a chance to finish. His face fell in on itself, like a building razed to the ground. The conviction in his eyes dimmed, but didn't go out. This was the fifth time he'd had the courage to even try to ask her on a date. He wasn't ready to give up yet, but he was getting closer.

"Yeah, okay," Billy sighed. "Maybe some other time."

Her shift ended at two-thirty, after the bar had been emptied, cleaned out, scrubbed down. She didn't say goodbye to the other employees: a few retired strippers, the owner, and a busboy named Jimmy. She stood at the bus stop on the corner and waited for it to roll around and pick her up. The driver nodded sleepily at her as she flashed her bus pass. She sat down heavily on a green plastic seat with a spongy pad. The plastic had been cut with various implements, scrawled on with black marker, covered with gang signs and hearts and stars and names. It was important not to think about what had happened on the seat cushion. She had enough problems weighing on her mind without thinking about grimy bus seats.

At Fifth Street, she got off the bus, leaving one solitary woman in the last row of seats, her head buried in her thick coat. The lamp was still lit in the motel sign, flashing its $175 weekly rate, though the vacancies sign had been out for the last week. Business was picking up as the summer months approached. Cars lined the motel parking lot, butted up against stubby cement blocks painted fluorescent yellow. Buffy pulled her keys out of her pocket and unlocked the sticky door to room 102. Automatically, she reached over to yank the curtains shut over the front window. The room was tidy once again, for what tidiness was worth at the Rocket Motel. The sheets were probably crawling with lice and there was a permanent rust ring around the bathtub basin that discouraged anything but a quick shower. The whole room stank of cat litter and cigarette smoke, and the television set only picked up pay-per-view porn, a local news channel, and the televangelist network. It was a place to sleep, and that was its only redeeming quality. She'd called Room 102 "home" for nine solid months. She paid the rent on time and no one bothered her. It was that simple.

The black uniform tee shirt pulled away from her torso like a second skin, soiled with sweat and smoke and a spilled drink or two. She dropped it effortlessly across the back of a chair, pushed underneath a scratched desktop. Atop the desk sat a sheet of hotel stationary and a capped pen. Buffy leaned over to push the shirt onto the floor, away from the unfinished letter, dated May 31st, three days after the Sunnydale Massacre. _Dear Dawn, _it began simply, _I'm sorry_. There was more to be said, more to be explained, but she'd never had the heart to sit down and finish it. Still, there was no point getting the letter dirty and having to start it all over again. Those four words were difficult enough.

Buffy dug a handful of bills from her jeans' pocket and dropped it on the yellowed bedspread. She unbuttoned and unzipped her pants, squirming out of them as she kicked her shoes off and pushed them underneath the desk. In only some black skivvies, she walked into the bathroom and turned on the bathtub faucet. The shower came slowly to life, like an awakened teenager, grouchy and uncomfortable. Thick rust-red water splashed out of the shower head for a minute before the spigot spit out fresh clean water. It would take nearly five minutes to heat up to lukewarm.

She took the time to stare in the mirror, to gaze at the woman she'd become. The once bright green eyes, the eyes of a fighter, had dulled to a sickening pea soup color; the mouth, formerly bright and pink and quick to pun, was chapped and grayish and lined with wrinkles. She reached up to pull a rubber band from her hair and let the blond chunks fall around her face. It wasn't so much a fall of luscious curls as a thud of greasy knots, as lifeless and sad as the rest of her. The lengthening bangs managed to do a good job of hiding the thin but noticeable scar that raced across the right side of her forehead, glimmering with white scar tissue. Her arms tensed involuntarily, revealing the fine musculature of her arms and shoulders, the strength she still possessed but never put to use. She'd stopped hunting, stopped slaying. The only thing she did with her agility now was wrestle away the hands of flirtatious drunks.

Still under the discerning gaze of the mirror, Buffy turned to check the temperature of the water. In the glare of the overhead light, brighter than any other incandescent in the entire building, she caught a flashing glance at the scar across her back. From shoulder to hip, they'd cut her open, baring her carefully protected soul more than the gooey organs lying beneath the toned flesh. She carried scars the way she'd never carried them before, as if a slayer's natural healing ability went out the window when she failed to do her job correctly. It made sense. This was her punishment.

The edges of the mirror began to fog, slowly blotting out the image staring back at her. Releasing a breath caught in her lungs, Buffy crawled over the ledge of the bathtub and stood beneath the trickling shower head. The water stung her face like tears, tears that had stopped up in her cheeks for nine long months. Her shoulders ached, strung out with stress and tension. How she longed to hit someone, to take out her anger on something other than a wall or a pillow. The maids never asked about the cracks in the bathroom wall tiles or why the mattresses looked so lumpy. This was the kind of place where physical abuse went unnoticed, no matter to whom it was addressed. Still, it would be nice to hear someone else scream "Ow!" for a change.

It took only a few minutes for the water to become cold again, just long enough to shampoo and rinse her hair, rub a little soap on her skin, and clean away the smell of stale cigarette butts. Just as the temperature cooled, Buffy turned off the water and reached for a towel on the back of the toilet tank. She walked silently into the bedroom again and sat down on the edge of one squeaking mattress. Her dripping hair left wet spots on the bedspread while she counted the day's take. The money gave her a sense of calm, the sort of accomplished feeling usually reserved for the slaying of a dozen vampires. Now, a hundred dollars brought that same kind of pleasure. The money she folded over and over again and placed in a lockbox beside the Gideon Bible in the nightstand drawer.

Rubbing the towel over her clammy damp skin, Buffy allowed her eyes to close, her mind to drift. Memories trickled across the insides of her eyelids like frames on a roll of film. She stood in the middle of a school bus, the seats emptier than she'd envisioned, the assembled faces gloomier than she'd hoped. They'd had to run out quickly to let the bombs go off, and they'd left every fallen body behind. She hadn't wanted to leave them. She'd wanted to go down with the ship, to die among her soldiers, to say goodbye to the world and have it stick. Faith had grabbed her roughly by the arm and dragged her from the chaos, the fighting, the horror, the broken shell of laughter that was Aeshma's vessel. She didn't need a demon to tell her she'd messed up.

While they slept, exhausted by the carnage, deafened by the chaos, she'd stared at them. The faces of the fallen were burned on her mind, their deaths playing out like miniature movies every time she closed her eyes to blink. How could they sleep so soundly? Didn't they see those soldiers, marching into failure? Didn't they hear their voices, screaming for help? Buffy's heart pounded in her chest as she clawed her way off the bus and into the cold desert night.

"You should get some rest," Giles murmured, pushing his glasses onto his nose. Like them, he'd been asleep, only awakened by his Slayer's unrest.

"I can't," she replied in frustration.

"Please, Buffy," Giles urged her, his hand falling carefully on her shoulder. She turned on him angrily, pushing him away. Her hands shook and she couldn't stop them. Each time she blinked, someone died.

"I have to leave. I can't…I can't do this anymore."

"Buffy, don't…you don't realize what you're saying."

"Don't I? I made the wrong choice, Giles. I walked in and watched every single one of those girls die. They didn't have a chance. I was so stupid to think… Their blood is on my hands, Giles. I can't… I can't deal with this here."

"Don't run away from us, Buffy. We're here to help you."

"Not this time," she frowned, shaking her head. "Take care of Dawn, okay? Make sure she finishes high school. College… please. Mom would…would want her to go to college."

"Buffy, stop this! We will all confront this together!" He was angry, hurt, frustrated. Maybe in the darkness, he couldn't see her agony. Maybe he didn't want to see her fail.

"Take care of her, Giles. Please."

The desert stretched out ahead of her, and she walked into it without direction or desire. He didn't follow her, for whatever reason. If he got back on the bus then and woke them, she never knew it. Maybe he waited until morning to tell Dawn that her sister had abandoned her. It didn't matter at this point. They had no way of contacting her, and no one ever had. If they were angry or worried, it made no difference. Even now, every time she closed her eyes to attempt sleep, the faces of the fallen stared back at her, daring her to give up her conscious guilt, even for a moment. Buffy's eyes opened again, as quickly as a pair of roller shades. She rubbed them unconsciously with the edge of her damp towel and flicked on the television.

It would stay on for the rest of the night and into the early morning. She didn't pay it much attention, but she'd still memorized most of the infomercial scripts, the dialogue for old episodes of _Little House on the Prairie _and _Saved by the Bell_, the early morning weather reporter's voice. She watched until her eyes glazed over and the little bell on her alarm clock alerted her to the morning hour. It was time to get ready for another shift of her day job, waitressing at a small truck stop diner on the edge of the highway. She'd work until three, come back to the motel and stare at the television, then get ready for another shift at the bar. Not sleeping meant that there was more time to work, to keep her mind off her waking nightmares. Buffy pulled one of three identical outfits from the closet. The uniform was simple-a white lace-trimmed half-apron over a pale purple smock-dress. White socks and white shoes completed the ensemble which was attractive but not sexy, feminine but comfortable. Mostly, Buffy just felt tired wearing it. Getting ready for work at the diner only meant she'd gone another night without sleeping.

Georgia and Marilyn met her at the front door, ready to hand over their shifts to fresh blood. The diner was open all night long, and while Buffy had applied to take every available shift, she'd somehow landed squarely in the early morning breakfast rush, from which there was no escape. Already the truckers were scrambling inside for pieces of smothered French toast, scrambled eggs and bacon, biscuits drowning in gravy, and the cook's ominous Trucker's Omelet. With a simple nod, Buffy acknowledged the start of another shift, releasing the late-night women to their beds. She tied her apron around her hips and picked up an order pad from the counter. Sucking in a deep breath that tasted faintly of burnt toast, Buffy started her tripping gait from table to table, collecting orders and conversing with the general public.

It was the part of her job she hated the most: talking to the patrons. If she'd had any experience with cooking, she would have taken a spot among the other chefs on the line. None of them could cook too well, but they could flip an egg. It was a talent necessary for the line and one that Buffy Summers did not possess. She could do a back flip and stake a vampire but for the life of her, she'd never figured out how to scramble eggs. Instead, she had to engage the dirty and dingy truckers that shuffled into the diner on the hour. They all ordered multiple refills of crappy coffee and plates of French fries with gravy and hamburgers with mayo and extra pickles and raw onions. Some of them complained when she didn't smile. Some of them bitched about her slow service. Sometimes she had to give back her tips. If the bar had been open during daylight hours, Buffy would have quit the diner immediately.

The breakfast rush lasted from six in the morning to eleven-thirty, and it never really slowed before eleven-thirty hit. Waitresses rushed back and forth from kitchen to table at full tilt, bussing most of their own tables and shoving small change into their pockets. When the door stopped swinging on its hinges, most of the girls gathered at the counter to count their wad and fill ketchup bottles. Buffy stood near the back door, half-way looking for a route of escape. A few customers took the slow period as their moment away from work. They were the early lunch crowd and they accepted that service would be slower, slightly nicer, and generally more pleasant. Buffy took those customers, not because she offered better service, but because she was singled out by the rest of the sociable crew.

"He's yours," Sally grunted, looking up at the door as a patron walked through it. He sat down in a booth at the very back of the restaurant and opened one of the menus sitting at the end of the table.

"Whatever," Buffy sighed. She pulled her pad and pen from the pockets of her apron and took a slow walk to the table. Without looking at the customer, she began to scribble on the ticket.

"Something to drink?"

"Buffy," replied the customer.

"Huh?" Buffy blinked. The notebook nearly fell out of her hands. The pencil she shoved through a loop in her ponytail. Her eyes shot down at the man, an indistinct sort of guy. He had dark hair, stunning blue eyes, and a slight shadow on his pale face. He'd changed clothes since the last time she saw him, a change fairly distinguishing considering who she was looking at. He looked less a Mormon now and more like an accountant, maybe a very low-key lawyer. Over a dark blue suit and a straight tie, he wore a khaki trench coat that would have seemed far too warm for any normal person in Reno in March.

"Get out." Buffy grunted as soon as she recognized him. Her face stiffened. She pocketed the notepad and shoved her hands down at her sides.

"We need to talk." Castiel replied, his mouth thin and firm.

"I said get out." She didn't raise her voice. She didn't make a scene. She simply glared at him.

"Buffy…"

"Do not make me tell you again."

Castiel stood and scooted out of the booth. He did it without flaw or spectacle. Most people squirmed out of a booth seat, but not him. He stood upright, his face inches from hers. He didn't breathe. When he spoke again, his eyes blazed. The room was deadly still, and when she glanced over his shoulder, she knew why. The waitresses had ceased their counting. The cooks had stopped clanging in the kitchen. The whole room had frozen solid.

"I am an angel of the Lord, Buffy. Do not take that lightly. I have left you in peace since last we met, but now, we must speak."

"I'm retired, Cas. Whatever it is you're selling, I'm not buying in. I've had it. No more. I'm done."

"What happened at Sunnydale was a mistake. I did not realize how grave that mistake was until very recently."

"I don't want to talk about it, Cas," Buffy shuddered. She turned away from him, lowering her head like a pouting child.

"Aeshma's plan was not to release his minions on Earth. That was only a clever distraction. We fell for his trap, and now we must pay the price."

"What are you talking about? His trap? We sent him back to Hell, Cas! That's the one thing we did right!" She was facing him again, her cheeks reddening, her eyes filled with an emotion that blurred between fear and anger.

"We allowed fifty women of pure heart to be murdered on the Hellmouth. Their shed blood allowed a much more powerful demon to set foot on Earth, to claim her own vessel. Aeshma is an old demon, Buffy, an ancient demon. Lilith was the first. She is literally The First Evil, the first demon created in Hell."

"No…" Buffy whispered, her voice strained.

"She has already set her plan into action."

"Let me guess… the apocalypse."

"This is not just any apocalypse, Buffy. This is not the end of the world ushered in by vampires or lower echelon demons. This is the End, demons against angels."

"I'm not a demon or an angel, Cas. So I'm still out."

"You started this."

"We started it, Castiel, together."

"And we will finish it, Slayer. We will stop Lilith before the End comes."

Her hands shook, and when she gazed down into her empty palms, Buffy could swear they were dripping blood. She'd failed, in more ways than one. She'd killed every single Potential Slayer, every girl who could ever possess the strength and skill to be like her. They'd died because she'd led them into battle. And now she knew it was all just a joke, a trick, a good laugh at their expense. Oh good job, Slayer. You've helped us bring about the apocalypse without us having to break a sweat! You fool. You stupid, stupid fool.

"I can't do it again, Cas. I can't fight them."

"You don't have a choice. If you don't fight them, who will?"


	2. An Almighty Sound

**Chapter 2: An Almighty Sound**

Darkness came at him from all sides, reaching out to hold him, to arrest him. His breath came in short, labored gasps, each one more difficult than the last. A scream tugged at his throat, but his tongue was little more than a prune, dehydrated and raw inside his mouth. Frightened, he pushed at the swollen black walls, thumping his fist squarely against a hard, rough board. His fingers recoiled, crushed by the sturdiness of his confines. Agitated, frustrated by the small enclosure, Dean Winchester scratched at the flat wooden slab just inches in front of his face. His fingernails ripped. His skin split. Warm drops of blood caressed his chapped lips. The room seemed to close in which each passing second. The edge of his black vision blurred. The crack in the wall was deafening, so sudden that it might have shattered his ear drums. There was no time to focus on it. Dirt crumbled down through the gaping hole, filling up the last pockets of breathable air. Grasping at clumps of thick, damp soil, he swam toward the surface, struggling up stream like a spawning salmon.

His fingers reached the surface first, stretching out into the warm summer air, burning under the glow of an unbridled sun. The earth caved in around him, breaking open a sinkhole from which to crawl out. Dean rolled onto his back, kicking away the last of the dirt. He lifted an arm over his eyes to shield away the rays of uncomfortable sunlight. Fresh air tasted like sin on his tongue, and he gulped it in until he felt too sick to continue. In agony, he rolled onto his shoulder and wretched upon the ground, spitting up nothing but gummy saliva. Pushing a hand into the dry grass, Dean pushed himself up onto his knees. A simple wooden cross had sunk into the ground behind him. The trees had been cleared in a clean circumference, a perfect circle around a grave site. Another breath passed shakily over his lips.

It took several minutes of panting breath before he was capable of standing. Even still, he struggled to his feet, grasping at clumps of flattened grass to steady his feet beneath his wobbling knees. A vague realization of pain occurred to him, and he lifted one hand up in front of his face, turning it from palm to knuckles. The skin of his fist had split open and trickles of fresh red blood dribbled between the knobby bones like estuaries. His other hand, held aloft before squinting green eyes, showed a similar fate. Dean wiped the backs of his hands on his tee shirt, a crisp but dirty black shirt that felt scratchy and unfamiliar against his skin. Wincing, he released a hiss of pain between clenched teeth. The idea of pain seemed peculiar, unusual, but the actual sensation of it was unforgettable. He regretted the motion instantly, but had no way to halt the feeling of burning embers on virgin skin.

Bashful of the blaring midday sun and already noticing small rivers of perspiration rolling down the contours of his back, Dean began to walk. Unlike his shirt, the simple jeans were loose and comfortable in the right places, tight where tightness was necessary. He walked gingerly, ducking his face down against the heat of day, squinting his eyes against the brightness. Involuntarily, he licked his lips, drying out the already dry skin. He swallowed the small drops of saliva beading on his tongue, only wetting his thirst, dehydrating his mouth. For the first time, he noticed his tongue tasted like ash, the walls of his mouth like a cold fire. Responsively, his stomach clenched and groaned, anxious for sustenance. Dean stopped for a moment to hold his agonizing guts, to gag on the dusty earth. His eyes fell upon a cracked tarmac, an empty road.

It took another hour of walking before he came upon a small fill station, as empty as the surrounding landscape. He tried the door and it clicked open in his hand, falling backward into the cloudy shop. Dean coughed as he inhaled the stale indoor air. A rasping choke spit from his mouth, and he stumbled forward to a refrigerated case filled with bottles of water. Desperate, he threw open the frosted glass door and retrieved a bottle. The cap spun free and dropped to the ground. Tendrils of water spilled from the corners of his mouth as Dean inhaled the bottle, panting through flared nostrils as he gulped. The water churned through his aching insides and threatened to come back up again. He leaned his forearms against the nearby checkout stand and gasped like a fish until the liquid settled. It quenched his thirst, filled his belly, and left him feeling seasick all at once. Dean sank down to the floor, leaning his shoulders against the counter. His eyes fell closed, and a vision danced free of his memory and collided with his inner sight. The screams of the damned voided all other noise, even the rapidity of his beating heart, the eager wheezing of his lungs. Flashes of fire shot up in front of his frozen gaze, and through them, faces jeered and roared, cried and sang in their agony. His eyes shot open again at once, and the pounding of his heart was so heavy, it seemed to echo within his soul.

Pushing the memory out of his mind with incredible force, Dean reached up to the top of the cash stand and resumed his uneasy stance. He glanced at the aisles of packaged foods, most of them covered in a fine layer of gray dust. He reached for the first bag of potato chips on the rack, ripped the bag open, and shoveled the salty crisps into his mouth in handfuls, ignoring the sparks of pain that flared each time he dipped his fresh wounds into the bag. Dean opened a package of squishy snack cakes next, pushing each gooey chocolate mound past his sore lips and over his slacking tongue. He reached for another bottle of water to wash the mess down, to clear his esophagus for another wave of nutrition. The wrappers he piled up on the floor, ignorant of either his theft or his mess. At the end of the food aisle, his dirty hands covered in powdery cheese residue, he noticed a newspaper stand, sealed shut and filled with yellowing papers. His stomach gurgled angrily in protest as he bent down to one knee to read the stamped black print. The papers were old, clearly out of date, but the location was still the same. He was in Pontiac, Illinois.

Corn chips and Hostess cakes tasted far worse coming back up the throat than they did going down it. Dean placed his hands on his thighs and bent over near the driver side door of a 1970 Chevy pickup truck. He coughed and sputtered until the last chunks of pink coconut cleared his open mouth, and then he stood up. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he gulped down more water and spit it into the vomit before covering the whole mess with his shoe. Popping open the door, Dean slipped in behind the wheel and reached up into the visor for the keys. They chimed in his palm before he thrust the key into the ignition. With the radio silent, he careened onto the road with the pedal on the floor.

The lot looked eerily familiar, but Dean had no idea why he'd come here. He'd driven until he couldn't stand it any longer, until his vision had begun to blur and the night had taken on a haunted quality. Rubbing the back of his head in between glugs of water, Dean turned around in a rough circle, admiring the stacks of old cars in front of a lonely clapboard house. Exhaustion brought him to the front door. He knocked carefully and moved for his phantom weapon. Dean felt along his pockets once and then a second time. He was still scavenging for a knife or a gun when the door flew open and the man on the other side raised a large hunting knife.

"Who are you?" Bobby Singer growled, dragging Dean inside the house with one hand gripping his shirt. Dean flew around like a ragdoll, defenseless and confused. He lifted his hands, the fingers shaking visibly, and placed them palms out in front of his body.

"Please…" Dean stuttered, the word raw in his mouth.

"I said who are you, goddamnit?" Bobby continued, wielding the knife which glittered in the dimly lit room.

"I…" Dean breathed; the sound of his own voice unfamiliar. With wide eyes, he gazed into the angered face of his attacker. The beard was scruffy and unkempt, and over his world-weary eyes, he'd pulled on a well-worn trucker's cap. Still, the face was unmistakably Bobby's. "Bobby…"

His voice cracked the way an old record crackles on the turn table. The knife fell from Bobby's hand and clanged when it hit the wooden floor beneath his grimy work boots. He released the black tee shirt from its death grip and stared at the young man in front of him, the ghost of a hunter as close to him as his own child. Dean shook like a trapped rabbit, his eyes wide and staring. His lips were chapped and bleeding, and his face was soiled and beading with sweat. The broken flesh of his hands gave him away. He looked like a dream, and at the same time, incredibly real.

"Dean," Bobby whispered under his breath. "You're alive."

"Yeah," Dean grunted after a beat. "Uh…do you have any beer?"

Safety being imperative in any hunter's daily life, Bobby subjected Dean to the full barrage of demon tests before admitting that he had truly awoken from the grave. Dean submitted to each one with a kind of quiet indifference. He watched blood drip from a wound Bobby inflicted with a silver knife. Like before, the pain was real and difficult to ignore, but the occasion was unusual. The act of bloodletting was as surreal as the rest of the day had been, like a dream within a dream. After making the sign of the cross upon his forehead with Holy water, Bobby sat back against the edge of the kitchen table. He folded his arms over his chest and adjusted the brim of his cap.

"So, what happened?"

"I don't know," Dean sighed.

"Well, what do you remember?"

"Not much. I woke up inside a small, dark room. Turns out it was a coffin, six feet underground."

"You dug yourself out," Bobby gasped apologetically.

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "But you knew that."

"It's happened before. I heard about it through one of my sources. From what I understand, it's a pretty traumatic experience. How are you feeling now?"

"I could use a shower." Dean shrugged nonchalantly.

"Yeah," Bobby frowned. "I'll bet."

In the bathroom, Dean stared at his reflection in the mirror. Memories of his life before death crept slowly back into his brain, disjointed thoughts and flashes of recollection. He pulled his shirt off, peeling away the filth and sweat he'd accumulated over the course of the day. In the dingy glass, he examined the unmarred skin of his stomach. Hellhounds had ripped him to pieces, left his insides on the outside, but there was no sign of that on his body. He winced as their howling voices echoed through his mind, their brilliant eyes flickering in the mirror like determined ghosts. Where there should have been claw marks, spilled guts, and blood, there was nothing.

Dean turned toward the shower to turn on the faucet. His eyes tore back to the mirror, staring at the strange burn on his shoulder. It was so red and ghastly, he was surprised he hadn't noticed the pain associated with it before. As soon as he looked at the garish wound, his brain began to fire receptors of pain. Wringing up his mouth as though he'd eaten a whole lemon on a dare, Dean exhaled a grunt. He reached up to touch the burn. It was more than a burn, really. It was a handprint, scalded into his flesh like a brand. It was still tender and hot to the touch.

"Where's Sam?" Dean muttered as he ran a towel back and forth across his hair, rubbing out the last droplets of water.

"He took off," Bobby sighed, shrugging his shoulders. He took a long swig from a bottle of whiskey and handed it to Dean. Dean looked thoughtfully at the bottle before taking a sip. It burned all the way down his throat.

"What do you mean? Where did he go?"

"I don't know. He didn't tell me."

"I can't believe you let him go off on his own, Bobby! He could get hurt out there!" Dean fumed with overprotective Big Brother rage. He slammed down the bottle of Jack Daniels and briefly took mental note of the number of similar empty bottles spread out across the various horizontal surfaces spaced around the room.

"It's not like he gave me a choice, Dean. Sam's a big boy. I tried to get him to stick around here, but he was determined to…"

"To what?"

"To find a way to get you out of Hell," Bobby sighed.

"To… whoa." Dean sat down heavily on the sofa, coughing up a spiral of dust. "He did this?"

"I don't know. I mean, here you are, when you shouldn't be."

"And with the weird scar… like maybe a demon dragged my ass out of Hell?" Dean was back on his feet again. He grabbed Bobby's phone from the hook and punched a number into the keys.

"Who are you calling?" Bobby blinked.

Less than a minute later, Dean was punching GPS coordinates into a search engine. Bobby stared, impressed. Dean and Sam spent every waking moment together, and the eerily almost-telepathic link between them was more than impressive. Dean would be the first to tell anyone that there was nothing supernatural about it. He just knew Sam well. Still, the intimate knowledge he had on Sam Winchester was shockingly accurate one hundred percent of the time. The GPS located Sam's phone signal in Pontiac, Illinois.

"That's where we buried you," Bobby muttered suspiciously.

"Yeah," Dean grunted. "I know."

"Well, do you think he…?"

"What? Succeeded? It sure as hell looks like it, Bobby! Unless I'm a figment of your alcoholic imagination." Dean spread his arm wide to encompass the collection of empty bottles.

"It's been rough, Dean. You try losing a son, see how you feel."

They were on the road within the hour, hauling back to the town from which they'd come. Dean stared out the window, the noise of the radio like an irritating buzz lingering in his eardrum. Somewhere, beyond the dust and rolling empty hills of South Dakota, a demon lurked. It was a demon powerful enough to throw his ass from the Pits of Hell. What had Sam traded for that freedom? What was worth more than a soul? Dean closed his eyes and inhaled the rich gasoline smell of Bobby's old truck. Desperate screams erupted from the depths of his memory. _Don't do it! Please! PLEASE! _His hands were so soaked with blood that it stained them a permanent shade of glossy red. Was he screaming, or was it them?

"Dean? Hey, you okay?" Bobby's voice called out of the filmy blackness of Hell. Dean opened his eyes suddenly. The moon hung high overhead, a shade of pale yellow pulled over its beaming white face.

"Yeah," Dean wheezed. "Fine."

"We're here," Bobby gestured, pointing at the entrance to a seedy motel along the highway.

"Right," Dean nodded. He pushed open the car door and got out onto the dry blacktop, still holding in the day's roasting summer heat. The Impala sat casually in the moonlight, a beam of yellow bouncing off her glossy black hood. Dean jogged over to the car and placed a gentle hand on the roof.

"Hey baby," he cooed. "You miss me?"

The motel had only one story, each room supporting one measly parking space. If nothing else, it offered an easy decision in finding Sam. Dean pounded his fist on the door in front of the Impala's chrome grill. The door opened slowly and a young woman popped her head and half of her body out. She had dark hair and a pair of dark brown eyes to match, pale skin and pale red lips. She wore a pair of men's tightie whities and a white tank top. Dean raised an eyebrow.

"Kinda late for visitors, isn't it?" She smiled sweetly.

"I'm here to see my brother," Dean replied shortly.

"Well, there's no one here but me…"

"Open the door." Dean demanded. "Sam? You in there? SAM!"

The door swung open from a foot above the woman's head. Sam Winchester's face was a mess of emotional responses, the lips screwed up and the eyes squinting. He reached from the door and pulled Dean in by the neck, strangling him. Bobby rushed in behind them, just before the door slammed shut. In all the chaos, the woman stared, her mouth hanging open.

"Who are you?" Sam roared angrily, throwing Dean up against the nearest wall.

"It's me, Sam!" Dean gasped, trying to pry Sam's fingers loose.

"Goddamnit boy, let him go! We've done this part!" Bobby chimed in.

"Prove it!"

"Bitch." Dean frowned.

"Jerk," Sam replied instinctively. His hand loosened and Dean dropped about an inch onto the floor.

"Uh, Sam?" The woman blinked from the opposite side of the room. She looked even paler, and she'd drawn on a pair of jeans. "How about I just…meet you later?"

"Oh! Right, sure," Sam nodded.

"I'll just…let myself out."

The door shut a second time and Dean collapsed onto the edge of the rumpled bed. He raised an eyebrow and laughed softly. Bobby looked between the two brothers, both of them panting with a mixture of physical strain and laughter.

"Nice score, Sammy. Looks like you've been busy since I've been dead."

"It's nothing," Sam shrugged.

"Sure, sure," Dean smirked.

"So, what are you doing here, Dean?"

"I was about to ask you the same question, Sammy. What am I doing here?"

"How would I know?"

"Well, obviously you did something. One minute I'm in Hell. The next minute I'm clawing my way out of a pine box."

"It wasn't me, Dean! Not like I haven't tried, but they wouldn't take my deal. They got what they wanted. I couldn't get you out."

"So…you have no idea how I got here?"

"No."

"Great," Dean sighed. "The mystery continues."

Dean sighed and turned over on the bed, the pillow tucked securely around his face and neck, as if he hoped to smother himself with it. It had been late by the time he'd left Sam's room and booked a place for himself. They'd decided to head back to Bobby's in the morning, to try and sort this mystery out where all the big and complicated research books lived. A lingering apprehension kept Dean awake, as though he might close his eyes and realize the whole day had been a dream. He was still in The Pit, still suffering at the hands of the demons, and all this was just a reminder of the past. If he closed his eyes, he'd be back there. It was the last thing in the world he wanted.

Dean pulled the scratchy bedspread up to his shoulders as the room cooled. He rubbed his face with the back of his hand, just as the television turned on. The screen was awash with black and white snow, unable to find even an infomercial display at this time of night. He looked around, wondering if he'd rolled over the remote by accident.

"Shit," Dean hissed under his breath when he located the television remote, sitting untouched on the nightstand. The lighted numbers on the alarm clock flickered and changed, as though a magnet were held directly over their circuit board.

"Just show yourself!" Dean yelled at the room. He threw back the covers and tore away from the crumpled white pillow. A sound stretched out into the room, faint at first. Dean struggled to hear it, but didn't have to wait long for comprehension. It was a piercing, screaming, high-pitched noise. The noise filled the room, burned into his thoughts, filtered through his body. Brief flashes of bad horror movies bounced through his brain: Linda Blair and her weird spinal tap in _The Exorcist_, Carol Ann's innocent "They're here" in _Poltergeist_. Dean lifted his hands over his ears to block out the sound, but to no avail. The television screen cracked. The bathroom mirror shattered into a thousand tiny glass shards. Dean sank from the bed to the floor, on his knees. Tears streamed from his eyes.

And as quickly as it began, the sound abruptly stopped.


	3. Raise It Up

**Chapter 3: Raise It Up**

"Did you hear that?" Sam blinked, looking up. He got to his feet and stalked across the room to the door.

"Hear what?" The girl asked thoughtfully, her mind on other things. She followed him to the door, touching his hip with one graceful hand. Sam turned to engage her, but his eyes still darted in the direction of the door.

"It sounded like glass breaking," Sam murmured.

"I didn't hear anything, Sam. I think you're just distracted, what with Dean being back. Remember your mission. We need to stay focused."

"I know," Sam nodded guiltily. He slid a hand into her outstretched palm, and she led him back to the bed. "I know."

"Okay, close your eyes," the woman smiled, allowing Sam to find his perch on the edge of the mattress. "Listen to the sound of my voice."

"Are you sure we have to do this? Dean's back now… he's okay."

"Did he look okay to you? He was in Hell, Sam. Who knows what they did to him down there…"

"Lilith is going to pay for hurting him," Sam sneered, focusing back on his objective.

"Yes," the woman nodded smugly. "She's going to pay."

"Okay, so you were sleeping, and then there was a weird noise?" Bobby raised a bushy eyebrow up under the brim of his cap.

"It wasn't just a noise, Bobby. It was like…the Emergency Broadcast System meets one of those soprano opera singers. I thought my brain was going to explode."

"And the TV came on?"

"Garden variety haunting-type stuff."

"And you think it's connected to whatever dragged you out of Hell?" Sam frowned, his face a mask of confusion.

"Well, what else would it be? You said yourself you've been staying here for a week, Sammy. Suddenly, I show up with my weird handprint tattoo and the whole place goes to shit?"

"Bad timing?"

"I sorta doubt it,"

"Look, I have an idea," Bobby interrupted. "I know a girl…she lives in Cleveland. She has some ties to this sort of thing."

"What sort of thing? Ghosts? Demons?"

"Death and revivification, actually," Bobby shrugged.

"What is she, a psychic?" Sam asked, almost excitedly. Dean rolled his eyes.

"No," Bobby muttered. He got to his feet, grabbed his car keys out of his pocket, and turned toward the door. In a muffled voice, he replied, "She's a witch."

"Oh no," Dean shook his head. "No Bitches of Eastwick, not again."

"You want to know how you got out of Hell, Dean? Maybe she can tell us!" Sam was on his feet as well, scratching the Impala's keys out of a candy dish on the nightstand.

"Or maybe she can turn us into frogs," Dean moaned.

"She's the most powerful witch I know, guys. If there's anyone that can tell us anything about this rise from the grave, it's her. Like I said, she has ties. Hell, she wrote the damn book on it."

"Fine," Dean sighed. "But I'm driving."

It took the better part of the day to drive to Cleveland. Bobby led them down forgotten highways and lazy country roads, avoiding the bumper to bumper traffic of the main arterial highways. Dean bumped his hands against the steering wheel, impatiently crooning old Metallica tunes on an ancient cassette tape. Sam's white plastic iPod sat abandoned in the backseat.

"Do you remember anything?" Sam yelled over the radio.

"Nothing," Dean lied gruffly. He reached over and turned up the music. His brain ached with the pounding bass and crashing guitars, but it was worth it not to have to talk about his adventures in The Pit.

Bobby pulled to a stop on the curb of an attractive white house, shaded by the branches of a gnarled oak tree. A lonely beige Citroen sat in the driveway, and in the spot in front of the paved walkway, a white SUV gleamed in the late afternoon sun. Dean drove up behind Bobby and parked. Sam squirmed out of the car and stretched his legs, lifting his arms up and over his head.

"This is it? You sure she's a witch and not a stay at home mom?" Dean rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.

"I'm sure," Bobby nodded. He led them across the street and up a few brick steps to the paved cement walkway that led to the front door. A talisman with dried herbs was nailed to the white door frame, and a beautiful handmade wreath of vines, flowers, and herbs decorated the door. Bobby knocked gently. Sam scuffed his shoes on the welcome mat.

The door opened quietly, and in the open frame stood a young woman. Her vibrant red hair hung around her shoulders, and a pretty pink smile was painted on her face. Her eyes lit when she spotted Bobby Singer on the porch, and she held out a hand in welcome. He smiled bashfully and took off his filthy hat.

"Bobby," she grinned, shaking his hand delicately. "How are you?"

"Doing okay," Bobby nodded. "I was wondering if you had some time to…talk shop."

"Sure," she agreed, stepping to one side to usher the band of dusty men inside. "Come on in. I was just making some tea."

Inside the kitchen, a beautifully lit yellow room filled with house plants and white furniture, Dean, Bobby, and Sam gathered around a small white kitchen table. The woman, dressed simply in a long black skirt and a button-down white top, poured hot water into a pink teapot.

"Who are your friends?" The woman asked as she moved around the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of honey and some milk from the refrigerator.

"Dean and Sam Winchester, friends of the…well, they're like my family. Guys, this is Willow Rosenberg."

"Hi," Willow beamed, wiggling her fingers at the Winchester brothers. She set the tea on the table and sat down in the last remaining chair.

"How…oh!" Willow frowned, looking across the table at Dean's mangled hands. He still had dirt caked under and around his fingernails, and his fingers and knuckles were scabbed and bruised. "Are you okay? Let me get some Band-Aids."

"No, it's okay," Dean shrugged. "I'm fine."

"I haven't seen wounds like that since…" Willow paused. Her head jumped suddenly to Bobby, and she pushed back her chair from the table. Her eyes darkened, as though a rain cloud had blotted out the sun in her face.

"I thought maybe…" Bobby murmured, his lips trembling slightly. "Maybe you could help us find out who…did this."

"Where were you?" Willow demanded, turning from Bobby to Dean. The darkness of her irises was almost black, and the blackness seemed to seep in around the edges of her eyelids like ink bleeding through paper.

"In Hell," Dean replied succinctly.

"You were freed…" She whispered. The darkness began to recede. Sam watched with fascination at the witch's transformation, from zero to scary to zero in less than a minute.

"I guess," Dean shrugged.

"Well, it wasn't a witch," Willow shrugged, resuming the bouncy happiness she'd assumed when they'd first arrived. "At least we know that much."

"How do we know that much?" Sam asked.

"Well, I'd know about it. Let's just put it that way." Willow chuckled to herself. "Come on, Dean, let's go upstairs. Sam, Bobby, make yourselves at home. Dawnie should be home soon, and Xander is…well, he'll probably work late."

"What about Rupert?" Bobby called after them as Willow pushed Dean up the staircase.

"He's working late. He always works late."

Dean walked through the plain walnut door that Willow opened at the top of the stairs. Natural light spread across the mattress of a beautiful sleigh-style bed. Willow shut the door behind them and opened a wooden bench propped up against the end of the bed. She withdrew only one thing-a white candle, which she set upon the nightstand and lit with a simple wooden match.

"Have a seat, Dean," Willow smiled, pointing at the bedspread, a woven quilt of flowers and celestial shapes.

"I'd rather stand," Dean frowned stubbornly.

"I didn't ask. If you want to know what happened, we'll need to concentrate, and the best way to concentrate your energy is to sit down and let it happen. So sit."

"How do you know Bobby?" Dean asked as he adjusted himself on the bed.

"We used to travel in the same circles," Willow shrugged. She sat across from him on the bed, her legs folded in front of her.

"You're a hunter?"

"Me? Heck no. I'm a witch. But I used to work with a…well, I guess a hunter is a good name for her."

"What's her name? Maybe I know her too."

"You don't." Willow answered bluntly. She lifted her eyes and looked straight into his, so boldly that he was afraid to return the gaze. Would that darkness rise up in them again? Would he be staring into the face of Death for the second time? For a tiny redhead with a pretty smile, she was damn scary. "She's dead."

"Oh," Dean muttered apologetically. "Sorry."

"Me too," Willow nodded. "Anyway, enough about that. Give me your hands."

Dean placed his hands in Willow's open palms. Her eyes closed slowly and he followed suit, however unwillingly. A trembling sort of nervousness coursed through his veins. Though he never physically shook, he could feel his insides wobbling to the point of seasickness. The beam of sunlight that stretched from the window waned and wavered. Where he'd once been warmed by its presence, he now felt the icy touch of a bitter winter's frost. He exhaled and tendrils of water vapor drifted from his dry lips. Willow's voice came out of the black cold, the power in her voice distinct.

"So you're back," she said, her tongue spitting bitterly. "Come to ruin more lives? Kill more hunters?"

"She is not dead," a voice replied, almost anguished. It was a man's voice, quiet and stern.

"Close enough," Willow growled.

"You raised him, Castiel."

"It is part of my Father's plan, Willow. I do not have a say. I am only following my orders."

"Why don't you just talk to him instead of using me?"

"When the time is right, I will speak to them."

"Who?" Willow's voice almost cracked.

"You know who."

"No! Don't! Don't bring her in to this again! Leave her alone!" Her hands quaked and squeezed Dean's fingers until he was sure they'd shatter like the glass in the mirror.

"I will redeem her. She will not suffer. I will not let her suffer."

"Don't you touch her!" Willow screamed, tearing her hands away from Dean's. The room suddenly exploded with light, the same sunlight that had been streaming through the window. It was just past sunset, and the light had taken on tones of purple, pink, and red. Dean looked up to see Willow on her feet. Her eyes were watery, and smears of wet blood streaked her face. Her lower lip convulsed as she wept angrily.

"Willow?" Dean frowned, ducking his head sympathetically.

"It was Castiel, that bastard," Willow hissed. "And he's not done with you yet."

"What's Castiel? Is it a demon?" Sam demanded as they stalked back out of the house.

"I didn't ask. You should have seen her face, Sammy. She looked like…like I don't even know what. Witches, man. They give me the creeps."

"We'll look it up back at my place. It sounds familiar." Bobby scratched the back of his head and looked up at the house. The curtains were drawn over Willow's bedroom window.

"Who was the female hunter she was talking about? Did she give you a name?"

"Nope," Dean shrugged, slamming the car door shut. "All she told me was that the chick was dead."

"But you said she was talking about someone to this Castiel…thing."

"Yeah, a girl, but I don't know who it was. Sounded definitely not dead though. I mean, unless we're dealing with zombies here. Zombie hunter chicks?"

"Geez, sounds even worse than witches," Sam shuddered.

"I need a drink."

"Where are we?" Buffy muttered angrily, looking around the dusty parking lot. In the darkness, the columns of smashed cars resembled crumbling walls. The whole image gave her a sick sense of déjà vu.

"South Dakota," Castiel replied solemnly. "There will be a meeting here shortly."

"Great. Are you doing a PowerPoint presentation or one of those slide projector things? Either way, I want some of the free coffee."

"He'll be here soon."

"Who? You've been talking about this guy all day. I don't know why I let you talk me into this. I was getting on with my life, Cas. I was trying to be normal."

"Normal people sleep."

"Normal people work for a living. Normal people get a paycheck. Normal people aren't bleeped into the middle of nowhere at…ten after ohdarkthirty!"

"As soon as he arrives, this will make more sense. I apologize for the secrecy. It is…"

"Don't say it."

"My Father's plan."

The slap cracked through the night, bouncing from the farthest chunks of rusting aluminum. He didn't stop her hand, though he could have quite easily. There was a brief sensation of warmth in his vessel's skin, an understanding of pain. Castiel felt a slight dent in his angelic armor. She wanted to do more than slap him across the cheek. She wanted to hurt him, and she knew that the fight was worthless. He was an angel. He came away from Sunnydale without so much as a rip in his shirt, a speck of blood on his coat. The rage and hatred and self-loathing seethed inside her like a fire ready to explode. As she panted, she fumed.

"I wish I could give you the satisfaction," Castiel frowned.

"You can't. No one can." Buffy sighed and turned on her heel, walking out across the lot away from the angel. She stuffed her hands in the pocket of her jacket, burrowing down against the cold. Her boots picked up dust, spitting out little clouds beneath her heels.


	4. It Pours From Your Eyes

**Chapter 4: It Pours From Your Eyes. It Spills From Your Skin**

Dean pulled up into the mostly vacant parking lot. He slammed the car door and walked inside, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket, the collar flipped up to block out the gust of cool wind drifting over the plains. The bar was almost empty. A couple of ranch hands sat at a table in the back, drinking pints and flipping cards over. A young woman sat at the bar, a sweaty bottle of brew in front of her. Dean shrugged his shoulders almost imperceptibly and went up to the bar to sit near her, one stool between them. He pulled off his coat and sat down across the stool, nodding to the bartender for a pint of whatever was on tap. He picked at the bowl of pretzels sitting on the counter, tossing a few twists into his dry mouth.

Twitching an eye in her direction, he studied the woman. She was attractive with her slender pointed nose and her pale pink skin. She wore a pair of dark blue jeans and a black top with a black leather jacket. A simple silver cross lay against her breastbone. Dean's eyes admired her slight curves, the way her pant legs tapered around black boots. Strapped to her ankle, visible in shadow beneath her pant leg, he spotted a knife. It was a good-sized weapon with a long handle. Interesting. With her jacket hanging open the way it did, he could see a small clear flask in her inside pocket, clear water sloshing around inside it. Glancing at her face a second time, he noticed the scar over her brow.

"Working a case or just passing through?" Dean asked casually, taking a swig of the beer in front of him.

"What?" Buffy looked up and past her shoulder at him. Her thoughts scattered to the four corners of the room.

"Well, either that, or you're an undercover nun."

"You caught me. South Dakota is dripping with sin. I'm just trying to break into the scene." Buffy smirked. She touched the cross on her chest thoughtfully.

"Actually, I was referring to the holy water in your pocket. Do nuns carry holy water? I guess I just assumed."

"This?" She reached into her pocket and pulled out the flask. Tenderly, she set the bottle down on the counter and looked at it. "It could be vodka. Or gin. You don't know."

"So you're a nun that likes her gin. Or vodka. I guess you're just a proud and devout drunk."

"The cat is out of the bag."

"Alright. Well, I like the outfit anyway. It's very Sound of Music meets The Terminator."

"Whereas you're more of…hm, rebellious cop posing as a mechanic," she smiled, reaching out behind him to grab the butt of the gun protruding from his back pocket. She set it heavily on the bar.

"Right on the money," Dean nodded.

They sat in silence for a beat, their eyes poised on one another. Buffy admired the state of his hands, scraped and raw. Dirt gummed up the spaces under his fingernails. His eyes were slightly rimmed with redness, but the green irises were dull and sad. He wore a peculiar little brass pendant against a dusty black tee shirt. There was a hole in the right knee of his jeans.

"Those knuckle scrapes are the worst. They take forever to heal and you'll always have a couple of scars." She held out her own hand to show him a few hairline scars.

"Bar fight?"

"Not exactly," Buffy shrugged. She drew back her hand and looked down at it. "I was digging around in the dirt."

"Gardening," Dean smirked. "I hear that stuff'll tear you up."

"So, do you have a name, Officer?" She swigged the last few drops of beer from the bottle and pushed it away.

"Dean Winchester."

"Buffy Summers," Buffy replied. "Look, I don't mean to sound forward, but I'm a long way from home and there aren't many places to spend the night in the middle of…wherever it is we are."

"I knew I sat down in the right place. Not many places on earth where a nun asks to come home with you."

"Yeah," Buffy shrugged. "At least I know that gun will keep the crazies away."

Dean threw a couple dollars on the counter and slid off his stool, depositing the pistol in the back of his jeans. Buffy walked out with him, zipping up her coat as they reached the exit. Dean popped open the passenger door for her and turned down the volume on the radio before he stirred up the engine.

"So what are you hunting?" Dean asked casually, pulling out of the lot.

"Nothing," Buffy shrugged. "I'm retired."

"Can you really just retire? Can you give it all up?"

"It's for the best." Her voice sounded final, and Dean decided not to pursue the conversation. He pulled up to the creaking old house in the middle of the salvage yard and shut off the engine.

"I'm staying with an old family friend, Bobby. He shouldn't mind you shacking up overnight."

"Bobby Singer?"

"You know him?"

"Not exactly. He's a friend of a friend."

Dean stretched out on the sofa and kicked his feet up on the armrest. He stuffed the pillows around his head and rolled onto his left side, his skull tucked into the cushions. Sleep was difficult, pierced with nightmares and screams. The damned trickled from the recesses of his memory and swarmed toward his eyes, pecking at the veins and muscles with what felt like prodding hot pokers. Dean tossed and turned maniacally, throwing away the jacket he'd pulled across his torso. He woke with a sudden start, his arms and legs flailing. A few rays of moonlight drifted into the living room, sprawling across the floorboards. The kitchen light flooded the hallway and voices seeped down along with it.

Unable to shut his eyes again, Dean swung his legs over the edge of the couch and stood up. He rubbed a hand over his face, wiped his eyes with his fingers, and slumped down toward the source of the yellowed light. Buffy Summers sat at the kitchen table. She'd removed her jacket, and Dean immediately noticed the slim musculature of her arms, the softness of her figure, and the sharply contrasting hardness of her eyes. She looked tired, as tired as Dean felt having awoken in the middle of the night. Her lips moved and the voice followed sometime after, like a movie played out of sync with the soundtrack. Another voice, a man's voice, replied to her in kind.

"Sammy?" Dean called out, his voice gruff and dehydrated. Buffy's head turned to face him. She didn't smile in acknowledgement, but seemed almost to frown.

"He's here."

"Dean," said the second voice. It came from a man, a man with short, messy brown hair and bright blue eyes. He wore a long khaki trench coat over a simple blue suit. His eyebrows turned down, giving him a sad facial expression. He stood near Bobby's kitchen sink, a few feet away from where Buffy sat. His hands hung limply at his sides.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean choked.

"I am Castiel."

"Did you let him in here?" Dean growled at Buffy, pointing his finger dangerously at the intruder.

"No," Buffy sighed. "He followed me."

"Dean. Do not be afraid. I am an angel of the Lord. I am the one that gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition."

"Bullshit," Dean swore, narrowing his eyes. "There's no such thing."

"I do not understand you humans. You have no faith."

"It is really that hard to understand, Cas? Take a look around." Buffy sneered at him bitterly.

"Do you know this guy?" Dean blinked, looking between the two of them.

"He's really an angel," Buffy sighed. "Wings, halo, extreme desire to be brutally honest, and completely clueless."  
"I have fought with Buffy before."

"I lost," Buffy frowned, narrowing her eyes.

"Is this why you wanted to come home with me? To introduce me to your friend?"

"I told you, Dean. He followed me. I didn't know he was looking for you."

"And you brought me out of Hell? Why?"

"We have work for you." Castiel looked between the two of them, his eyes stern and bright. "I have come to bring you redemption."

"Hey, Dean, wake up," Sam beckoned, shaking his brother's shoulder. Dean groaned and opened his eyes slowly, blinking to correct the blurriness in his vision.

"Sam?"

"Yeah, hey," Sam nodded. "Look, I'm sure you were having some great Busty Asian Beauties fantasy, but we have a guest."

"Castiel," Dean grunted, sitting up. He rubbed the back of his head with one hand. He tried to remember the course of events from the previous night. When had he gone back to sleep?

"No," Sam frowned. "It's a girl. Bobby knows her. She said you brought her home from a bar?"

"Buffy."

"Yeah, that's the one. Anyway, did you know she's the Slayer?"

"The what?" Dean got to his feet and followed Sam into the kitchen. Buffy was still sitting in the same seat at the table. A cup of steaming coffee sat beside her, untouched. She looked up when Dean and Sam walked into the room. The tiredness in her eyes was still visible, as though she hadn't gone to bed last night. Had she really sat in that same chair all night long?

"Was I dreaming?" Dean asked, splashing coffee into a faded blue novelty mug. He glugged down some of the acidic liquid and coughed at the taste.

"What did you dream?" Bobby asked quickly.

"It wasn't a dream," Buffy sighed. She finally got to her feet, taking the coffee mug with her. She leaned back against the kitchen counter and sipped at the drink, using both hands to hold the container.

"Could someone please explain?" Sam sighed, irritated.

"Castiel was here. He's an angel. He was standing here in the kitchen, talking to us, last night."

"An angel?" Sam gasped. "That's…that's incredible!"

"Buffy? You've seen him too?" Bobby blinked, taking off his hat as if he'd walked into church.

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Back up. Sam said you're the Slayer. What's the Slayer?"

"I'm not the Slayer anymore. I'm retired." Buffy looked down into the last of the mud at the bottom of her cup. She set it down in the sink and ran water into it. Brown sewage spilled over the sides of the mug and down the drain.

"The Slayer is a hunter, like you guys," Bobby interjected. "Instead of picking up the practice circumstantially, she's chosen by fate to kill demons, vampires, ghosts, and whatnot. The Slayer is always a woman, and usually short-lived. Buffy is the longest living Slayer in history."

"Oh that's only true if you count consecutive lives, Bobby," Buffy replied bitterly. She turned off the faucet and looked back at the Winchester brothers. "If you look at it another way, I'm batting average."

"Okay, so we have a Slayer and an angel?" Sam blinked, flabbergasted.

"He said he pulled me out of Hell. Is that even possible?"

"He's an angel, Dean! If he picked you up out of the Pit, it had to be for something important! You've been saved! All this time we were worried you were picked up by a demon, and it turns out you've been specifically selected by God."

"I'm just a guy, Sammy. What the Hell does God want with me?"

"Trust me on this," Buffy interrupted before Sam could open his mouth again. She shoved her hands in her pockets and turned to walk out of the room. "It's nothing good."

Sam slapped the keys on his laptop furiously while Bobby leafed slowly through the pages of a large and dusty volume. In full research mode, there wasn't much for Dean to do. He had always considered himself on the action end of the demon-fighting Winchester team. Sure, if push came to shove, he could submit to those endless hours of library index cards and old newspaper clippings, but today, there didn't seem to be any need. Sam bit thoughtfully into a carrot stick as he thumbed through page after page of angelic lore. His eyes went wide and every other minute he'd yell "Hey guys! Listen to this!" Invariably, the small insight he provided had little to do with Castiel and more to do with how angels are great and lovely and have pretty wings. Dean could only stand so much of his throaty adoration. If he loved them so much, he could deal with them, Dean thought. Muttering something about fresh air, he followed the weary path of Buffy Summers and ended up outside on Bobby's moldy front porch.

"It's like an Evangelical telethon in there," Dean groaned, letting the screen door slam shut behind his foot.

"I'm surprised you're not bouncing up and down about it too." Buffy didn't look up. She'd perched herself on the top porch step, her knees drawn up against her chest.

"You don't know me very well," Dean shrugged.

"Likewise."

"So, how do you know him? Castiel, I mean." Dean leaned against the porch railing and looked out at the hazy brown day.

"We worked together once, on a…case." Buffy muttered. "I don't want to talk details."

"Okay…"

"But there's something you need to know about them, about angels, about Cas," Buffy continued. She got to her feet and turned around, her arms crossing her chest. "You can't trust them. They're not looking out for you. They're just following orders. If they were actually trying to help us out, why would people like you and me exist in the first place?"

"The way I see it, God's a busy guy," Sam interrupted, popping out of the house with a slight bounce in his step. He pushed his cell phone into his pocket and tilted his head to flick his hair out of his eyes. "We're just doing our part to make his job a little easier. Anyway, it's time for a greasy food run. Any requests?"

"Pie," Dean grunted.

"Got it. Buffy? You want anything?"

"I'm fine,"

"Don't forget the pie, Sammy."

"Dean, in twenty-five years, have I ever forgotten the pie?"

"No, but there's always a first time."

The car keys traded hands and Sam walked to the Impala. He looked out across the matte black hood at the hunters on the steps. Buffy Summers had probably been a pretty girl once, but something had changed her. Her skin was almost gray and her green eyes were bruised and pink and puffy. Her one rugged visible scar suggested more tucked away beneath her gristly clothing. What did Dean make of her? He'd probably attach himself to her temporarily… but after that? Sam hoped he'd turn her loose. Something about her rough raggedness suggested trouble.

Suspicion wiggled through Sam's thoughts as he drove into town. A gas station with pumps occupied by trailer trucks sat on one side of the street. A billboard hovered over the town, exclaiming "Jesus" in simple block letters. At the outskirts of town, a dingy motel dozed in the shade of a 1950s diner, plated in bright red vinyl and chrome. In the alley between the buildings, Sam parked the car and pushed open the door. In the blazing morning sun, Ruby stood beside a bus bench, her dark brown eyes fixed on the pavement. From a distance, she wasn't a demon. Had she ever been? Sure, she possessed someone, and yes, she had been to Hell, but the soul trapped inside was a good person, a strong woman, a fighter. The beauty of her determination stretched past the exterior demon parts and touched Sam's heart. They'd send Hell screaming back into the Pit and emerge triumphant. Maybe that was why the angel had popped up. He'd come to tell Sam that he and Ruby were on the right track.

Sam got out of the car and acknowledged her with a nod. Ruby lifted an eyebrow and cocked her head, calling him over to her motel room. They still had to be careful. Eyes were watching. Not everyone would be happy to see them working together- at least not yet. He locked the car and followed her upstairs to room 214.

"Dean was brought out of the Pit by an angel!" Sam gushed excitedly as soon as he'd pushed the door shut and locked it.

"Don't sound too happy, Sam. This is bad."

"What do you mean?"

"Angels are bad news, Sam. If they find out we're working together… Sam, they'll send me back to Hell."

"But why? We're on the same side!"

"Angels don't ask questions. They follow orders."

Ruby's eyes darted anxiously around the room, as if the angel were hidden in a corner, waiting to strike. Sam reached out an arm and pulled her into his chest. His lips dipped into her hair protectively.

"I'm worried about Dean," he murmured into her scalp. "I don't think he's going to be able to keep up with us."

"They torture people in Hell, Sam. Dean's a changed man."

"He picked up some girl the other night at a bar, brought her back to Bobby's. She's pretty quiet, keeps to herself. She's a hunter. Her name is Buffy."

"Buffy Summers?" Ruby chuckled, tossing her head back to look up into Sam's face.

"Yeah…how'd you know?"

"The Slayer is staying with you now? Hah! I bet that angel thinks she's worthy of this fight. Buffy Summers couldn't kill her way out of a paper bag!"

"Well, we probably need all the help we can get…" Sam frowned uncertainly.

"You're the only thing we'll need to kill Lilith, Sam. Dean and Buffy Summers are weak. They've been beaten down so many times… they're not sure they know how to stand up again."

Dean dusted off his knees and opened the screen door to head back inside. His stomach groaned uncomfortably, and fleetingly, he wondered what was taking Sam so long with the pie. The door whined and slammed shut behind him as he let it go. Buffy lifted her eyes at the sound. She'd been so lost in her own thoughts that'd she failed to notice Dean sitting behind her. Exhaustion reared over her shoulders, tempting her to sleep. She pushed the feeling away with a low, annoyed groan. The nightmares that had plagued her for nearly a year were still waiting for her under the sheets, in the folds of the pillow. She had no desire to stir them back up now.

Rubbing the insistent sleep from her eyes, Buffy raised her head to look out at the windy afternoon. A dust ball kicked up at one edge of the towering lot of vehicles and drifted to the other side of the fence. A white pickup truck trundled past on the highway, probably doing seventy-five. There weren't too many police officers way out here. There was no one around to mind the speeders. Occasionally, she noticed a tractor putt-putt down the road at an even ten miles per hour, but the massive vehicles were few and far between. Somewhere between the dust and the quivering sky of midday, a figure stood out amongst the cars.

Buffy got to her feet, surprised by the visitor. She wiped a hand across her sweaty brow and tossed her jacket onto the porch steps. The figure crept toward her, as if in no real hurry. She hadn't seen anyone pull up, not since Sam had peeled out in the Impala, but she hadn't exactly been paying attention either. No one could call this dreamy-eyed Slayer a watch dog.

"Hey, can I help you?" Buffy called out the approaching figure. At this distance, she could tell that it was a woman, a young woman. Her eyes and skin were dark brown, and her hair, tied into braids, fell against her shoulders. She wore a pair of faded blue overalls over a striped multi-colored tee shirt. One of her arms hung heavily at the shoulder, and as she got closer, Buffy noticed that the arm was mangled.

"Are you okay?" Buffy asked, slightly more concerned. The girl was young, probably not more than sixteen. Her eyes smoldered with anger, and her face scowled so deeply that she took on the look of a monster.

"Buffy Summers," the girl growled bitterly. A wind picked up around them, displacing the shaggy blond hair that hung limply from Buffy's ponytail. The girl didn't even rustle. "I've been waiting a long time for this."

"Rona?" Buffy gasped, finally recognizing the girl. She'd been a Potential Slayer, a vocal girl, a frightened girl. She'd never been afraid to admit that she was terrified. She'd died like the rest of them, died at the hands of a mutant vampire.

"Oh, so you remember me? How kind of you! You couldn't be assed to remember any of us when you threw us into the Pit with Aeshma's minions!"

"I regret that decision every day, Rona…" Buffy whispered hoarsely.

"You regret it? My mother is still out there, waiting for me to come home! Why didn't you tell her that you let some animal rip out my throat?"

The figure lurched forward. Buffy raised her arms in a fighting stance, more out of habit than any urge to defend herself. She lifted her arm to block a punch but Rona's arm went through hers and connected solidly with her face. Buffy stumbled backward with a grunt, catching her footing on the lowest porch step.

"It's your fault, Buffy! You killed me! I was fifteen years old! I didn't deserve to die!" Another strike came, this one harder, more brutal. A ghostly fist careened through the air and slammed into Buffy's nose, causing a gush of blood. At the same time, a kick as forceful as the hood of a car smashed into Buffy's legs, tumbling her backward against the stairs.

"I wish I could take it back!" Buffy replied helplessly, trying without success to push back the ghost.

"Take it back? Take it back! I'm dead, you bitch! You killed me! You let me die!"

"Leave her alone!" Dean growled, firing a shell of rock salt through the ghost's head. It dissipated instantly. Dean dropped down on one knee to help Buffy to her feet. The nosebleed had dried up, but her body was still in pain.

"What the hell was that?" Buffy groaned as soon as they were in the house.

"Ghost," Dean replied with a grunt.

"Thanks, Sherlock." Dean shrugged. He pushed a few more slugs into the gun and looked around the living room. Silence met them with no reply.

"Who was she?"

"A girl…" Buffy sighed, touching her face distractedly. "A girl I killed."

"You know all about that, don't you, Dean?" A woman smirked, appearing in the corner of Bobby Singer's living room. Her blond hair fell around her cheeks, grown out from the last time Dean had seen her. Her eyes were as blue as the evening sky, a stark change from the depth of blackness that once occupied them.

"Meg?" Dean blinked, confused.

"Dean Winchester, how sweet of you to remember me. You are remembering me, right? The girl inside the demon? I died because of you, Dean! You could have saved me! You could have helped me before that demon killed me!"

"We did everything we could, Meg…" Dean frowned.

"Don't argue with it, Dean," Buffy muttered. She reached for the gun jutting from his jeans and held it out in front of her. In all the years she'd been fighting, Buffy Summers had never shot a gun. There were better tools for demon-killing. She pulled the trigger, and the Meg ghost disappeared in a brief gust of smoke. "Just kill it."

"Dean!" Bobby yelled from upstairs. They heard his feet jostling down the steps and he ran into the foyer. Buffy lifted up her shirt to rub the spot Rona had kicked. It was still sore, but the pain was fading.

"We appear to have some ghosts, Bobby," Dean smirked. "Talk about a homecoming."

"Never thought I'd miss good ol' fashioned vampire killing so much," Buffy muttered.

"I know. I just had some while I was washing my hands. Two girls from a few years ago…they died before I could get to saving them."

"Great," Dean shrugged. "At least they're spreading the love."

"So…four ghosts blaming us for killing them, or at least, not preventing them from dying."

"Well, they're gone for right now…" Buffy sighed. She looked longingly back outside, where problems seemed to stretch out into the lonely South Dakota countryside.

"Yeah, and I was about to make a sandwich. Anyone heard from Sammy? I'd kill for a hamburger."

"Dean," Bobby frowned, following him into the kitchen. Behind them, Buffy took the stairs to the second floor to wash her face. "I don't think this is over. Ghosts don't tend to pop in for a visit, throw around accusations, and then leave."

"Yeah, I know, Bobby, but what are we going to do? I say we wait until they show up again, and then go into research mode. Maybe Sam'll be back by then."

"Listen, ya idjit…" Bobby started. Upstairs, something thudded heavily against the floor. The sound echoed with a creak across the ceiling. Dean's head darted up as he spread peanut butter over a piece of slightly stale bread.

"Buffy?" Dean called. "Buffy!"

Buffy shut the bathroom door behind her. She looked at her face in the mirror. The bruises under her eyes had deepened to shiny purple pits of sleep deprivation. She'd failed to sleep for months, disturbed by the dreams she was now living in Technicolor. Maybe that's the punishment, she thought wearily. When you put the dreams off, they come at you while you're awake. She'd heard the term somewhere before-maybe from Giles. Waking nightmares.

The last drops of blood had dried against her skin, their rusty remains looking strange against her anguished white face. All the color had ebbed away, even as she lived day after day in the hot Nevada desert. There were lines around her mouth and eyes, lines as deep as the faults that wiggled through Sunnydale. The skin crawled on the back of the Slayer's neck, and she stood at attention, aware and ready for another fight.

"You're always looking in the mirror, Buffy." The voice sounded skippy, almost peppy with joy. "Are you looking for your soul?"

"I guess I am," Buffy replied aloud, catching the face that solidified behind her. It had brilliant green eyes and a mop of pretty red hair. It smiled pleasantly until the lips pulled away and the teeth shone in a violent sneer.

"You won't find it, Buffy." It jeered mockingly. "It isn't there."

A hand came up behind her head and slammed her viciously against the mirror, cracking the glass. Buffy stumbled away from the mirror, dazed by the impact. She threw both fists at the figure, trying helplessly to fight back against the ghost. She was another Potential Slayer, a victim in Lilith's rise. A foot, at once solid, threw her back against the wall, smashing a hole in the dry wall. Buffy grappled for Dean's pistol as the ghost came on again.

"You killed me! I trusted you! I followed your orders, and I trained hard! You threw me into the Pit and you killed me!" Her name was Vi, and she'd been so sweet and friendly. She was a hard worker, a good fighter, and as dead as the rest of them.

Buffy wrestled the gun free as another punch came battling forward. The pistol went off as Dean and Bobby threw the bathroom door open. Salt splattered the walls and the ghost disappeared. Buffy exhaled a loud breath. She relaxed against the wall and reached up to brush what felt like a bead of sweat from her forehead. Without drawing her hand away, she knew that the sticky liquid was blood. Great, she thought. That's just great.

"You alright?" Bobby asked as Dean helped her to her feet and handed her a towel.

"Never better,"

"Six ghosts," Dean frowned.

"Maybe we better think about retreating to the…" Bobby started. His voice trailed off to silence as the three of them stepped out into the hall, coming face to face with another old friend.

"Dean Winchester," Victor Henricksen grimaced, standing in front of a window on the second floor. He looked as prim and proper as the day he'd died, at the hands of Lilith.

"Agent Henricksen…" Dean replied warily. He held out his hand for the pistol in Buffy's grasp.

"You didn't just kill me, Dean," Victor growled, closing the gap between them before Dean could wrap his fingers around the butt of the pistol. "You killed all of us. You condemned us. Do you think Lilith just…blew us up? Do you think it was that easy?" A fist came forward, catching Dean across the mouth so hard that he took a few steps to the left to make up for it.

"She tortured us, Dean. She mutilated us. That poor secretary? Nancy? She was completely innocent up until the moment of her death, when Lilith defiled her. It's your fault, Dean. You killed us. You killed all of us!"

The ghost closed in on them, pushing them down the hallway with Dean at the head of their party. Buffy raised the gun and fired, grazing Dean's ear with the bullet casing. The ghost disappeared like a dream, and Bobby hauled Buffy and Dean down the front steps.

"Did you see that thing on his hand?" Dean gasped as they continued down the stairs, down into the depths of the house.

"I was too busy loading the gun, Dean," Buffy muttered.

"It was some kind of symbol…" Dean paused, looking up at a massive steel door blocking half of Bobby's basement. "Uh, Bobby?"

"Bomb shelter?" Buffy blinked.

"I got bored one day. Come on," Bobby unlocked the door and shoved it open, yanking everyone inside.

The walls were covered with markings of every size, shape, and religious affiliation. A simple cot sat in one corner, covered with fresh sheets and a cozy-looking pillow. A well-stocked First Aid kit hung from one wall beside a bookcase sagging with large, dusty volumes. Bobby plucked one such book from the shelf and tossed it open on a low desk. He flipped through the pages and stabbed a picture with one insistent finger.

"Is this the symbol you saw, Dean?"

"Hey, yeah," Dean nodded, wiping the corner of his mouth with one hand.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. They call this the Rising of the Witnesses. It's not just here, of course. There are probably other people, other hunters that have experienced the same thing."

"What? Ghostly visits that can leave you with bruises?" Buffy dabbed at her forehead with rubbing alcohol.

"Actually, they're trying to kill you," Bobby shrugged thoughtfully as he read. "The Rising of the Witnesses is a sign of the apocalypse, the end of the world. It's Biblical, prophetic. The spirits of the people we tried to save and couldn't… they're coming back for revenge."

"What Cas said this morning…" Dean reflected.

"End of the world. The apocalypse. God, I have so done this song and dance already!" Buffy scowled.

"So what do we do, Bobby? How do we get rid of them?"

"Gotta spell here somewhere…"

"What's the deal with the room, Bobby?" Dean asked, wandering the basement shelter while Bobby leafed through his books.

"It's demon-proof and ghost-proof. Devil's traps of every variety on the floors, walls, and ceilings. Whole room is made of silver, even the locks. And we got enough salt to last you to the end of the world."

"The snacks aren't all that great…" Buffy frowned, looking at a pile of spam and canned beans.

"Spam is just about the only kind of meat I like that comes out of a can," Bobby grinned, rubbing his stomach for added effect.

"Speaking of snacks, where the hell is Sammy with my pie?"

"Ah ha, found it," Bobby nodded, rubbing his scruffy beard with one wrinkled hand. "You guys ready to face the ghouls again?"

"Only if I'm armed," Buffy muttered. Dean tossed her a gun loaded with salt rounds. She cocked the weapon and held it out in front of her. A cold grimace spread across her pale pink lips. Dean opened the shelter door and ushered them all back out into the basement.

"Buffy…" a female voice called behind them. The Slayer didn't pause to listen to another word. She fired mercilessly into the dark, scattering ghostly remains.

"Nice shot, Slayer," Dean nodded. They followed Bobby up to the living room. Dean drew a circle on the floor in salt and pulled Buffy and Bobby inside with him. The spirits began to circle them, each one more menacing than the last. They all carried brands on their hands, the same symbol that Bobby now drew on the floor with white chalk.

"Dean, you killed me…" Meg moaned in agony.

"And now I'm going to do it again," Dean replied triumphantly, shooting a round of salt at the apparition.

Shot after shot banged through the room, almost drowning out Bobby's rambling spell casting. He'd drawn up a fire in the sagging fireplace and every so often, he threw herbs or salt into the flames. Now they'd reached a fearsome height, and each flame licked at the marble mantle covered with pictures and memorabilia. Buffy shot another round into the spirits dancing before them. They edged closer and closer to the salt circle, pulling at the hunters' clothes, trying to drag them free of their protective barrier.

"Any day now Bobby," Dean urged as he reloaded his weapon.

"Free us and be free yourselves! Witnesses, witness no more! Absum!"

The spirits vanished suddenly, poofing out of existence and back into the realm of the dead. Buffy wiped a few drops of sweat from her brow and set the gun down on the floor against the fireplace. Dean stepped out of the salt circle and rubbed his shoulder thoughtfully. His stomach growled as he heard the Impala pull up outside. Bobby whirled around as the front door opened and Sam Winchester turned the corner into the overturned room. He rubbed the back of his neck nervously, holding a bag of to-go boxes in the other hand.

"Hey guys," Sam gaped, looking from one bedraggled face to the next. "What happened?"

Buffy turned her spoon through the thick brown liquid that constituted coffee at Bobby's. It looked unappetizing and smelled worse, but it would keep her awake for another night and that made it worth stomaching. She'd put as much milk in it as she could stand, added enough sugar to give a child wings, and slugged it all down in one long gulp. Dean shuffled into the kitchen, nodding to her briefly before opening the refrigerator. He retrieved the last of the strawberry pie that Sam had brought home, and set it down on the kitchen table.

"Couldn't sleep?" He asked, half-awake.

"I don't sleep much," Buffy shrugged.

"You should both sleep more," Castiel frowned sadly, appearing in the corner of the kitchen. He stood stock still, awkward but with a sense of belonging. Dean dropped his fork on the table with a clatter. A bit of strawberry glaze splattered the front of his black tee shirt. "It will help you fight. It will keep you strong."

"So does drinking a lot of milk, Cas," Buffy muttered, annoyed.

"How the hell did you get in here?" Dean gasped.

"I go where I am ordered." Castiel replied simply. He looked down at them, sitting at the kitchen table, and took the seat across from them. His back straight and tall against the wooden chair, he folded his hands upon his lap.

"The Rising of the Witnesses is a sign of the Apocalypse."

"We've been over this end of the world stuff already, Cas. I've done this part. Let's just get on with it."

"Do not let your past jade you, Buffy. This is like nothing you have ever faced."

"You faced the apocalypse?" Dean blinked. He pushed the pie plate away. The pit of emptiness in his stomach had turned from hunger to fear.

"You probably have too," Buffy shrugged. "You just didn't know it."

"As you both know, Lilith walks the Earth." Buffy seemed to wince slightly at Castiel's words. Dean watched her reaction before submitting his own.

"Yeah. She bought my soul."

"As I have told Buffy, so shall I tell you, Dean. Lilith is the first demon ever created in Hell, the first Evil. She is Lucifer's favorite, his first born."

"Whoa! Lucifer? As in the Devil? Satan?"

"The Big Bad," Buffy included.

"Yes. Lilith is my brother's daughter. She plans to bring her father to Earth by opening the seals and unlocking the Gates of Hell."

"Seals?" Buffy asked.

"Think of them as locks on a door."

"How many?"

"She must open sixty-six of them," Castiel continued, involuntarily swallowing the saliva collecting on his tongue.

"Out of how many?" Dean pushed.

"Hundreds," Castiel sighed.

"So how many does she have so far?"

"At least two."

Buffy got to her feet. She paced down to the end of the kitchen and retrieved a bottle of beer from the fridge. Popping it open, she took a long swallow from the neck of the bottle and set it down on the table. Dean grabbed it instinctively and finished the rest. He didn't even stop to breathe.

"So you're telling us that we have to figure out which seals she plans to attack and beat her back successfully until she, what, gives up and goes home?" Buffy moved to grab the bottle again, but tossed it away when she found it empty.

"Yes."

"Excellent," the Slayer winced. "I should have stayed in Reno."

"Lilith must be stopped. You have been chosen to do this task. It is your destiny to fight back Hell."

"Don't start with the destiny crap, Cas. I don't believe in that. Whatever happened to free will anyway?" Dean munched on another strawberry. He spoke with his mouth full.

"I have faith in you." Castiel spoke simply. He was gone as quickly and quietly as he appeared. Buffy looked out the window, as if she might catch a glimpse of him taking flight. There was only blackness, not even a light shining through the window.

"Well," Dean shrugged. "At least somebody does."


	5. Sit Back and Watch the Bed Burn

**Chapter 5: Sit Back and Watch the Bed Burn**

"I'm going to be washing blood out of my pants for weeks," Buffy groaned irritably, looking down at her blood splattered clothes. She'd only brought the one pair thanks to Castiel's rather insistent packing schedule. Plenty of shirts to swap before weekly Laundromat day, but only one pair of pants. She shook her head and swigged another sip of beer from the bottle in front of her.

"Yeah, I hear that," Dean replied briefly. He lifted a finger to the passing waitress and pointed at their drinks, indicating another round. "You'd think it was the end of the world or something."

"Hey guys," Sam interrupted, pointing at his open computer screen. "I think I found another case. Maybe it's another seal!"

"Oh come on, Sam! We just finished this case an hour ago. I need a nap…" Dean moaned.

"Oh, a nap, eh? One of those ones where you scream in your sleep and then wake up to a shot of Jack Daniels?"

"Yeah," Dean muttered. "One of those."

"What's the case, Sam?"

"Peabody, Massachusetts. Three teenage girls have died there in the last two weeks. No evidence, no sign of breaking and entering, but all the cases are the same. Exsanguination."

"Why bother rinsing the blood out of my hair?" Buffy grimaced.

"Sounds like a ritual," Dean nodded. He took the next beer from the waitress's hand and slugged it down in one gulp. He threw a few bills on the table and squirmed out of the booth. "Might as well get going."

The town of Peabody was moderately sized, located just north of Boston, and home to hundreds of bright green treetops in the midst of a quaintly warm east coast summer. Dean rolled down the windows of the Impala and blasted the motel parking lot with the dulcet tones of Styx. Buffy leaned a lazy elbow on the edge of the open window and stared out at the town, as familiar as any of the other midsize cities she'd passed through with the Winchester Brothers in tow. Since Castiel had rained on her visions of a normal life, Buffy Summers had brutalized her way through six evil-infested townships, cities, meteroplexes, and tiny villages along the eastern seaboard. So far, they'd scored up: four seals shut, two open. Lilith was even-steven on the collaborative score. If Peabody had a seal, they'd have to keep it locked up tight to remain ahead.

Dean pulled into the first motel parking lot he saw, sitting empty right off Highway 1. Its black and white façade looked like something out of a bad disco film, and half of the lights on the sign had gone missing. Spray paint tagged the side of the administration office. Buffy rolled out of the car and stretched her legs.

"Why does she even bother getting a room?" Sam hissed conspiratorially to Dean from the back seat. "She doesn't even sleep."

"I like the shower," Buffy shrugged. Super Slayer hearing powers, she smirked. They never get old.

"See, Sammy? She likes the shower." Dean grinned.

"I'm so glad Cas teamed me up with you two. What are you, twelve years old?"

"Thirteen actually, but who's counting? Are you getting the rooms, or what?"

Buffy sighed and opened the plastic and aluminum front door to the motel concierge. She rented two rooms, pocketed a few mints from the desk, and ignored the completely unsubtle winking of the afternoon hotel staff member. Grabbing a brochure about the town's history from the stack of featured activities beside the door, Buffy walked back outside to her awaiting entourage. She handed one of the mints to Dean, and a key and brochure to Sam.

"Is this a hint?" Dean asked, unwrapping the mint.

"No. It's a suggestion."

"Subtle." He shrugged, throwing the mint onto his tongue without a second thought.

"It's around back," Buffy pointed to Dean as she got back in the car. "I'm taking room 105. You guys get…hm, 107."

"Actually, Buffy, I'm letting you and Dean take 105." Sam interjected.

"Uh, what?" Dean blinked.

"See, Dean has been doing this weird screaming-moaning thing in his sleep, and it's keeping me awake. He won't talk to me about it, and frankly, I'm sick of being woken up at three in the morning to the sound of the sink, the toilet, and liquor sloshing into a glass after he groans about a lack of ice in the ice bucket. You don't sleep so… you won't be woken up. So cheers to the both of you."

"Geez, Sammy. Who pissed in your cornflakes?"

"I haven't had a decent eight hours since we left Sioux Falls, Dean. And unlike the two of you, I need my beauty sleep."

"Just remember, during all that alone time," Dean grinned, yanking his duffel out of the trunk. "Busty Asian Beauties is on channel 99 and you're on research duty."

"So, uh," Dean stuttered. If Buffy Summers were any other woman, he'd have no problem starting a conversation with her. He'd turn on the classic Dean Winchester charm and she'd be putty in his hands. But there was something about Buffy. Maybe it was the fact that she was a hard-nosed hunter, a woman always alert. She never slept. She had a dark cloud hanging over her head, and it seemed to reflect darkness into her pretty green eyes. Whatever the factor, it made bland small-talk difficult.

"Retirement. How's that working out for you?" Dean tried hard to laugh, but the joke, he realized, wasn't all that funny. Recently, he'd been feeling the weight of the job. All that killing. All that blood. He'd been feeling a pit of darkness in his stomach that hadn't been there before. It was all getting to be too much. He'd noticed that the same held true for their female companion. Had she always been this quiet during a job? Did she always look so sad?

"It was going fine until Cas showed up," Buffy shrugged. She pulled off her jacket and swung it around the back of a chair. Dean glanced at a large purple bruise on her shoulder. In Virginia, she'd taken a rough blow with the blunt end of an axe. If it hurt her now, she didn't show it.

"What were you doing?"

"Waitressing," she replied with a shrug. "Nothing exciting. That was nice. It paid the bills."

"I think I'm over the excitement," Dean sighed in agreement. He sat down on the edge of a bed and pulled off his boots. "At this point, I'm just going through the motions, trying not to fuck it up."

"Yeah," Buffy nodded. The sentiment was all too familiar. "I know how you feel."

Sam's knock was urgent on the motel room door, and Dean lugged his body off the bed to answer it. Sam sat down at the small table by the window and pulled up information on his laptop.

"So this town has a really interesting history," Sam began, clicking away on the keys of his computer. "Giles Corey was buried here!"

"Who?" Dean asked, cocking one eyebrow. Buffy shrugged at Sam, also confused as to the reference.

"Didn't you guys ever read _The Crucible_ in high school?"

"I spent high school killing vampires and demons," Buffy frowned.

"Yeah," Dean nodded thoughtfully. "Me too."

"Giles Corey was the only man ever found guilty of witchcraft during the Salem Witch Trials. He was pressed to death by stones and buried here in Peabody."

"Oh," Buffy nodded. "Spooky."

"Okay, so one dead angry witch guy."

"He probably wasn't a witch, Dean. The Salem Witch Trials have been studied by historians and scientists. Some people believe that the magic people saw was actually hallucinations from a type of mold. Other people think it was a conspiracy."

"What does this have to do with the case, Sammy?"

"Sorry. Anyway, Peabody's weird history doesn't stop with Corey. In 1915, twenty-one girls were trapped inside their school and burned to death. None of the girls' remains were actually identified and all of the teachers in the school escaped, so clearly, no one went after them. The whole thing was pretty hush-hush."

"So you think the girls that had their blood drained has something to do with a witch and some burn victims?" Dean blinked, still incredibly lost.

"Well, no. I don't know anything about the case. I just tried to find info about our little township here. It isn't really a township anymore. It's a full-blown city. Anyway, I thought we'd hop in the car and do a little digging. All the girls went to the same middle school. They're all in the eighth grade."

"I better get my suit out."

"I'm not going in on this as FBI again, guys," Buffy started. The guys turned to look at her, perplexed. "These are young girls, in a school of young people. I used to keep an eye on my sister's high school, looking out for the bad eggs. I'm going in as a trauma counselor. With three deaths, they're going to need one."

Saint Ruth's Academy was one of the wealthiest schools in Peabody, run by a strict staff of nuns and snotty male professors in tweed blazers. Buffy adjusted her glasses on her nose, pressed the wrinkles out of her plain black skirt, and buttoned all the buttons on her silky white top. They'd had to make a stop in South Carolina for Buffy's FBI-esque wardrobe, but the purchase had been completely worth it. Dean nodded his approval and grinned. Heels clicking up the driveway, Buffy showed her badge to the security guard at the front gate, and then continued into the confines of the school. Dean and Sam drove away, headed out toward the Peabody Police Department.

The school was housed in some old Peabody building, possibly an estate. The doors and windows were massive, but let in little light, and the walls were covered with ornate upholstery rather than ugly sticky paper. Buffy clicked discreetly down the hallway until she arrived at the administration office. She pushed open the door and set a serious look on her pretty face. It was time to look natural, confident. It was time to look human.

"Good morning," Buffy nodded to the school secretary. "I am looking for Mother Superior."

"Your name, miss?"

"Elizabeth Summers. I'm from the agency."

"Oh right," the secretary nodded, flustered out of her desk. She went to knock on the nun's door and then stuck her head around the edge of the frame. Words were exchanged, and then she pulled the door wide to allow Buffy entrance. "Right this way."

Across town, Dean and Sam flipped open their badges in front of Sheriff Dawson, a small and mild man not originally from Boston, as the rest of the police department seemed to be. His lazy drawl was characteristically Southern and the twang on the end of each word seemed Texan. Probably somewhere Southeast, Dean thought.

"Agent Gowan and Agent Shaw," Dean grunted before tucking the badge into his front jacket pocket. "We understand you've had a rash of unusual murders here in Peabody."

"I didn't think you guys were interested in anything less than six bodies," the Sheriff muttered, sitting down at this desk. He ruffled papers back and forth across it and invited Dean and Sam to sit.

"The Bureau would like to keep these ritualistic killings to a minimum, Sheriff," Sam replied stiffly.

"Ritualistic? Naw, I don't think they're ritualistic. They're just…punk kids. Peabody has been going downhill ever since the fire."

"The 1915 fire?" Dean blinked.

"Yeah, that's the one. Broke folks' spirits. Crime got worse. Drug use became common. Have you seen that liquor store out on the highway? Terrible."

"No, Sheriff, I'm afraid we missed that one."

"Bunghole Liquors. I mean, really. Who names their business something like that?"

Dean and Sam exchanged glances. This was going to be one of _those _cases, where local law enforcement had both thumbs up its collective ass. They didn't know what to do about the murders, so they didn't do anything. Sam flipped through the case files while Dean drove down to the first crime scene.

"I can't believe the city of Peabody is even employing these losers. The notes on this crime scene investigation? _Nothing unusual. No sign of breaking and entering. No prints. _That's it, Dean. That's all it says!"

"Well, I guess we won't have to worry about them checking our references, right?"

"Or anything else."

"I wonder how Buffy's doing up at the school."

"Tammy?" Buffy asked quietly, leaning over her desk to hand the weeping young girl a tissue. Strands of curly red hair had fallen across her face and smeared the heavily-applied makeup she'd worn to school that day.

"All I wanted to do was have a slumber party for my birthday. That's allowed, isn't it? Why'd she have to do this? I mean, why did this have to happen?"

"Do…what? What do you think Amelia did?"

"She k…killed herself at my birthday party!"

"Killed herself? Your friends made it sound like she went to the bathroom and never came back out."

"Duh!" Tammy looked up, her face streaked with blue eye shadow. "She killed herself in my bathroom!"

"You don't think it was, maybe, someone else?"

"No!" Tammy wailed. "It was just her in there! We were all just waiting and waiting. And then Jamie had to go so we knocked on the door! And there she was, just…just…"

"Okay, Tammy," Buffy swallowed. "Why don't you go…clean yourself up? We'll talk later."

"I don't want to talk anymore! I'll never turn thirteen again! Why couldn't she have waited until she got HOME?"

Alexandra Houston's house looked like every other house on her block. The vinyl siding was periwinkle blue, and the white trim made it look distinctly fairy-like. The grass lawn was perfectly manicured and the boxwood fence around the perimeter was neatly pruned on an almost daily basis. A Station Wagon sat on the glowing white driveway. Dean knocked on the front door.

"Mrs. Houston? I'm Agent Gowan and this is Agent Shaw. We're with the FBI. We're doing an investigation into the Peabody Murders." Sam tried to be soft while Dean looked past her into the neat and tidy house.

"Is that what they're calling it now? It hasn't been in the papers."

"Can we come in, Mrs. Houston?" Dean asked.

"To do what?" The woman asked sincerely.

"Well, to do an investigation, ma'am. We'd like to look at the crime scene, do a little checking on the police report."

"Well, I already cleaned it. There was blood all over the floor. I couldn't let it just sit there."

"You…cleaned up the crime scene?" Dean coughed. "The murder is still unsolved, Mrs. Houston. You're tampering with evidence."

"Sheriff Anderson said it would be okay. The police didn't find anything. That's my daughter's bathroom. She wanted to use it."

"Please, Mrs. Houston, if we could just come in and do a little checking."

"I guess, but…there's nothing to see." She moved aside at last and let the brothers in.

"I haven't seen a ghost, ghoul, or demon yet and this is still the creepiest town in America," Dean hissed under his breath before taking a bite of his hamburger.

"All of the girls I interviewed said the murders were suicides, and why didn't their suicidal friends have the decency to kill themselves in their own bathrooms?" Buffy shuddered. She pushed her food around the plate but couldn't find her appetite.

"The police in this town don't even seem to care, and the crime scenes have all been washed down with bleach. It's like this whole thing is being pushed under the damn rug." Sam shook his head.

"Just like the fire!" Dean coughed. He pulled over Sam's computer, but as soon as he opened the lid, he stared blankly at the screen.

"Give me that," Sam scowled, taking it back.

"Sammy, you said that the fire that killed all those girls in 1915…nobody ever talked about it. They never solved the case and no one seemed to care. This is just like that. The case isn't solved, but they're all just…moving on."

"Gigantic conspiracy?" Buffy paused.

"Maybe. Maybe these people all know more than they're letting on,"

"Or maybe they don't know anything at all, Dean. Maybe they just don't care. It's like localized apathy."

"That's not going to help us solve this case, though," Buffy said, keeping them on task. "What do we know?"

"All three girls were murdered in a bathroom, and none of them in their own home." Dean said, looking at his notes.

"None of the girls were friends. They all go to the same school and they all know each other, but they don't travel in the same circles. They were all at sleepovers. Amelia Carson was at Tammy Houston's birthday party. Stephanie Brooks was at a Math Team meeting at Jennifer Keysen's house. Andrea Cooper went to a girls' night makeover party at Samantha Jones' house."

"In all the houses, we have no evidence of anything. The blood on the floor has been cleaned up with a pretty intense dose of bleach and industrial cleaner. There was no sign of breaking and entering. And all the girls simply got up to use the bathroom."

"Dean, I think it's time for a trip to the morgue."

"I'm going back to the school. Maybe we can get a curfew on sleepovers until we figure out what's going on."

Dean sat heavily on the bed, making the springs yowl angrily in mock-pain. He felt dirty and sick; the sort of feeling that came along with any trip to the city morgue. The bodies of the three girls had already been buried. It wasn't so much of a shock, considering how neatly package the murders had been. The coroner hadn't left any notes, and no one was even sure if there'd been an autopsy. Death by bloodletting was the officially noted cause on the certificate, and that was all that remained of the three deceased girls of Peabody. Exhausted by the day's events, all Dean wanted to do was sleep. It just wasn't in the cards.

"Dean," Castiel said. He was suddenly standing in the middle of the hotel room, accompanied by another man. The second guy was tall, taller than Castiel by a head at least. He had a shiny black head and heavy black eyebrows over dark brown eyes. "Buffy."

"Present," Buffy muttered, popping her head out of the bathroom. She dabbed her face with a dry towel and slumped into the room.

The hotel room door opened and in walked Sam. He almost dropped his laptop on the floor. His eyes went wide, like saucers, and his mouth dropped open.

"You…you're Castiel!" Sam squealed with joy. He rushed over and held out his hand. The angels looked at it sourly and turned their heads away. Sam's shoulders faltered and slumped toward the floor.

"What are you doing to protect the seal?" Castiel asked, his voice strong but void of any real emotion. His eyes darted quickly to Buffy's face and a softness flickered across them. It was almost unnoticeable.

"We didn't even know there was a seal here," Buffy scowled, crossing her arms over her chest. "We were just trying to figure out what happened to these girls."

"You were brought here to protect the seal. The murders are connected to it and to each other. A demon will open the seal and get Lilith one step closer to the Apocalypse."

"Have you seen the evidence in this case, Cas?" Dean sighed, digging the file folder out from under Buffy's jacket. "Because there isn't any. We don't know who or what or why this is happening. The whole town is one big cover-up."

"If you cannot find the demon and protect the seal, we will simply level the town and be done with it. Lilith cannot access the seal if she cannot find it under the rubble." The second angel grinned in a peculiar way, seemingly happy to throw the lobster into the pot.

"This is Uriel," Castiel nodded. "He is a…"

"Specialist," Uriel smiled.

"A specialist in what? Atom bombs? Why would you kill everyone to protect a seal? That's ridiculous! There are 400,000 people in Peabody!"

"And there are six billion people in the world, Slayer. If the seals are opened and the Apocalypse begins, they all die."

"Buffy," Castiel sighed sadly. "It may be better to burn this town and save the rest of the world. This is only one city."

"I used to think that way, Cas. Look where it got me." Buffy leaned back against the wall, dropping her eyes with sullen reflection. Dean glanced up at her from the edge of the bed. The dark cloud seemed to hover ever lower. Soon it would suck her in completely. Across the room, Castiel also dropped his eyes. His shoulders sank, creating creases in his unwrinkled khaki trench coat. The room was completely silent for a moment, as if everything had frozen. No one breathed.

"We're not going to damn a few for the sake of the rest. We're going to save everybody, even the crazies of this stupid little city. They want to cover up the deaths of their kids? Fine. But they're not going to get sacrificed because we haven't figured out their big secret yet. We still have time. We'll make time."

"You have forty-eight hours," Castiel said, looking back up again. His face resumed its expressionless stare. "We will return after that to see if you have been successful. If not…"

"We'll be fine, Cas. You can go now."

Dean passed out on the bed, the case notes tucked under his pillow. Sam drifted out of the room shortly afterward, checking the messages on his phone as he departed. Buffy stared out the window, her throat dry and sticky. Since Dean had closed his eyes, her mind had drifted away from the three dead girls and onto the memories of fifty dead girls, sacrificed for the Greater Good. Her stomach churned and gurgled uncomfortably. Desperate to clear her mind, she grabbed the room key off the front table and stepped out of the room, locking Dean inside alone.

Buffy traipsed across the parking lot, stopping only briefly to catch a glimpse of Sam Winchester standing empty-handed in front of the ice machine. He pocketed his cellular phone and glanced somewhere across the parking lot. She didn't follow his line of sight. It didn't matter much. The Slayer made a beeline toward the soda machine beside the check-in office. She pushed a couple dollars into the money feed and selected a diet cola. It dropped down into the slot, cold and frosty and bubbly and delicious. Buffy unscrewed the cap and leaned back against the machine to take a long gulp.

"When was the last time you slept?" Cas asked, appearing beside her without a sound.

"I don't remember," she sighed, turning to look at him. His eyebrows turned down and his shoulders sank in the arms of his jacket.

"You need to sleep, Buffy. I…" He paused, reflecting on the statement he intended to make. Hold on. Reverse that. "You are mortal. Your body is suffering."

"Leave me alone, Cas. Haven't you done enough?"

"Your abilities will suffer, have suffered. You aren't as fast. You aren't as strong. You're scarred. Bruised…"

"What do you care? You're just following orders, right? Just doing your job, right? Well, so am I. Those scars and bruises make great reminders…as if I could ever forget."

"You know I care. I still love you, Buffy." He admitted it with what looked like pain in his eyes and face. The conflict against his angelic duty was as plain as the stars in the night sky. Ever since he'd met her in Heaven, he'd loved her. Since she'd returned to Earth, she seemed incapable of imagining love, let alone entertaining it.

"Don't, Cas. Don't even start."

"I could force you. Is that what you want?"

"I'd like to see you try," she sneered.

"It is for your own good."

He stretched out his hand, two fingers poised to make contact with her pale pink skin. Buffy raised both fists to fight. She missed every punch. It didn't matter if she slept for twelve solid hours before she attacked him. Castiel was an angel, and she was just no match for him. His fingertips pressed gently against her forehead and the need to sleep was so strong that she gave in. Black clouds invaded her vision as her eyes fell shut. She went limp in Castiel's arms, her head lolling to one side.

Sam leaned up on one elbow and smiled down at her, a few beads of sweat collecting over his eyebrows. Her fingers tickled their way up his arm, leaving a dripping trail of blood in their wake. The great blackness of her eyes reflected the tiny rays of artificial light racing throughout the room.

"You're going to be so strong, Sam," Ruby murmured happily, leaning up to kiss his clavicle with dark red lips. "I'm so proud of you, and what you've become."

"I'll be strong enough to kill her," Sam growled aggressively. "I'll send Lilith screaming back to Hell."

"Yes," she smiled beautifully, drawing his arms around her waist. "Yes, you will."

Dean sat up suddenly, his heart racing. He could hear a woman's screams, so loud that he couldn't decide whether or not they were the suffering cries of a tortured woman's soul. They followed him into the dark room where he sat awake, his head pounding with each thump of his heart.

"Don't! No!" The voice screamed in agony. Dean pushed away the bed clothes and flicked on the overhead light. The ceiling fan whisked a warm breeze through the stale motel room. Buffy lay under the covers, freed of her jacket and her tight blue jeans. Her exposed skin glistened with sweat. Her legs had tangled and knotted the sheets and she'd drawn more of them around her upper body. Turned to one side, Dean could see a hint of scar tissue peeking out from under her shirt.

"No! Stop them!" Buffy screamed again, clearly in agony.

Dean took no more time in watching her. He ran to the bedside where she thrashed and cried. Resting a hand on each of her shoulders, he shook her awake. She needed only a few nudges to knock the power of Castiel's sleep away. She sat up suddenly, knocking her forehead against Dean's shoulder. Her open eyes were stained red and her face, he could see, was streaked with tears. She pushed his hands away roughly and stumbled out of the bed. With his mouth hanging open, Dean watched her storm to the bathroom and turn on the shower. She didn't bother closing the door. Instead, she clamored into the tub and under the spitting faucet, her clothes falling onto the floor, damp. The wall shook where she slammed a fist into the porcelain tile.

"Buffy?" Dean asked cautiously, getting to his feet.

"I'm fine," he heard her reply stiffly. Splashing water onto the floor, she climbed out of the shower and shut the bathroom door.

In the bathroom, porcelain tile shards and moldy grout showered the basin of the damp tub. A few drops of blood colored them candy apple red. Buffy pursed her lips and swore under her breath, not loud enough for Dean to hear her in the next room. Aggression surged in her muscles, forcing the other hand into the tile. On the other side of the wall, Dean listened to the water run. He paced from one end of the room to the next and finally reached for the bottle of whiskey at the foot of his bed. Where she buried her dreams in anger, he swallowed his with liquor. They tasted sweet and hot all the way down.

Sam tossed the morning paper onto the breakfast table. His cheeks were rosy and his eyes were bright. Unlike his companions, he was clearly suffering from a good night's sleep and a host of glorious dreams. Dean ordered a third cup of coffee and turned the newspaper around to look at the day's headlines. Buffy grimaced at Sam.

"Your point?"

"Look at the obits, page two." Sam urged her. When the waitress dropped off Dean's coffee and a breakfast of sausage and pancakes, Sam ordered an egg-white omelet with spinach and mushrooms.

"Emily Parks, age 13, committed suicide on June 21st. She is survived by her parents, Ellen and George, and her brother, Zack, age 16."

"Thirteen?" Dean spat.

"That was yesterday. You think it's another murder?"

"Well, there's a disturbing lack of actual news in this morning's edition, so I'm going to go with yes." Sam nodded, shrugging his shoulders. "I say we check it out. Buffy, maybe you can see what's going on down at the school. Dean and I will take the morgue."

"Lucky me," Dean muttered.

After dropping off Buffy at St. Ruth's Academy, Dean and Sam drove downtown to the morgue to investigate. Sam turned down the radio slightly, taking an ugly glance from Dean as he did it.

"What's up with you, Dean? You look like death."

"I didn't get much sleep."

"Maybe if you talk to me about what you remember, you'll…feel a little better."

"I don't remember anything about it, Sam. Stop hassling me about it. I was sleeping last night and I could hear someone screaming. I woke up and it was Buffy. She was lying in bed, tossing and turning, and screaming. After I woke her up, I couldn't get back to sleep. That's all."

"Did you ask her about it?"

"No, Sammy, I didn't. We barely know the girl. I'm not going to pry into her nightmares. Maybe it was just a bad dream."

Dean sighed and turned the music back up. Honestly, he was curious. More than that, he was worried. What had compelled Buffy to fall asleep in the first place? It certainly looked deliberate-the way she was underneath the covers and had removed most of her clothes. She hadn't said two words to him since she'd shut herself up in the bathroom, but when he'd showered this morning, he'd found holes in the bathroom wall. This morning, she looked dazed and stressed, and underneath that, he saw sadness in her eyes. He had no doubt that she'd remain focused on the case. That wasn't the issue. He was concerned about that inner turmoil, whatever it might be doing to her psyche.

After flashing their badges at the disinterested morning guard, Sam and Dean walked down the stale basement halls of the Peabody hospital, into the depths of the city morgue. Dean found Emily Parks on one of the tables, her toe-tag identifying her deflated-looking corpse. Like the others, her blood had been drained from her body through a slit in her throat.

"So we know what killed her, but we don't know why. Great." Dean's shoulders slumped as they walked back out to the car.

"Maybe Buffy can find out what the girl was up to when she died."

"Another sleepover? So what, Sam? You think the Bogeyman slit her throat?"

"It's possible…"

"But why these girls, Sam? Why this town? We haven't got much time here."

"I'm trying just as hard as you are Dean! But you have to admit…Castiel has a point."

"A point? About what?"

"The people in Peabody… they're just one town, Dean. If we can save the seal…"

"Don't EVEN go there, Sammy. We're not sacrificing anyone's life here. I don't care how far the stick is pushed up their ass. They've got every right to life that we do."

"Fine," Sam sighed. "Here's Buffy."

Buffy got into the car in silence and they drove back out to the diner to put their heads together. She ordered a sandwich and sat down at one of the tables. Dean and Sam slid into their seats beside her.

"Emily Parks died at a slumber party. She and her friends were going to dye their hair pink for the school dance. Brandi Morris was hosting the party. Her mother bought a Slumber Party Fun! Package from this little store in downtown Peabody. Brandi is keeping the rest of it in her locker, in memory of her friend."

"So another slumber party," Dean groaned.

"Any idea what's in the package?"

"No clue, but Brandi brought me what she had: a candle." Buffy pulled the candle out of her pocket. It was partially burned. The wax was bright pink, and small bits of herbs had been pushed into the mold.

"We need one of these," Sam nodded. He pushed himself free of the table and grabbed the car keys. "I'll be right back."

"So," Dean started, lifting his head to look at Buffy across the table. She lifted her eyes to look back at him. "Are you feeling…better?"

"I don't really want to talk about last night," Buffy replied. Her voice was quiet, but not completely off-putting. She wasn't angry, at least not with him. If anything, she seemed almost humiliated by her actions.

"I have them too, you know," Dean whispered secretively. It was the first time he'd ever admitted it to another person. Whenever Sam brought it up, he'd close him out. But Buffy was different. She seemed to know something about suffering.

"I know," Buffy nodded, taking a sip of her water. "I've heard you."

They sat in silence until Sam returned, carrying two paper bags of stuff. He dumped the items on the table. Each bag contained a colored "Slumber Party Fun! Package" wrapped in crinkling clear cellophane. Buffy unwrapped one and examined the contents. There were more candles; these ones lime green, filled with bits of herbs. A few sticks of incense in several different scents were enclosed in a small cardboard packet. Finally, inside a small white gift box, there sat a large muslin bag full of what the package claimed were "dreaming herbs" and six smaller bags to fill with the mixture. Dean sniffed the contents and scrunched up his nose, disgusted.

"You know, I have more of a desire to vomit than sleep after smelling that."

"What's in it?" Buffy asked, spilling the contents on the table.

"Smells like mugwort, primarily," Sam frowned, picking at the mixture.

"Candles, incense, and herbs in a baggie. Sounds like an amateur guide to witchcraft."

"I have a book on demon conjures back at the motel," Sam suggested.

"Why?" Dean blinked, raising an eyebrow inquisitively.

"I got it from Bobby…"

"Alright," Dean nodded. "Research time. Buffy and I will go around to the slumber party houses and see if they used this package o'fun. Sam, you find out what it does, if anything."

Sam sorted the herbs on the table, depositing each dried leaf into a pile coordinated by smell. His nose dribbled with fluid and his eyes turned puffy and itchy. Definitely an allergy development, he thought with a sniffle. Good thing I'm not around these all the time. After an hour of scrawling through the internet, he identified the herbs, and with his book, the conjure that went along with them. He flipped open his phone and dialed Dean's number.

"Yeah," Dean answered after the second ring.

"What did you find out?"

"They all used the packages. What about you?"

"The herb pillows are used to conjure the demon Belphegor. It possesses one of the slumber party girls and marks another for ritual slaughter. Belphegor collects the blood and will use it in a ritual to wake Lucifer. He needs five young girls."

"He's got four,"

"Yeah. So, go to the store and find the sales receipts. If it happens tonight, Dean…"

"Those dicks with wings will A-bomb the town."

"Yeah," Sam nodded. "Pretty much."

Dean shoved his foot inside the door at a children's clothing boutique in downtown Peabody. The sign, "Bella's," was written across the door in bright pink lettering surrounded by trailing green and yellow vines. The shopkeeper, a tiny woman with beady eyes hiding behind massive cats-eye reading glasses, was closing up for the evening.

"Not so fast," Dean smirked, pushing the door open again. "Agent Gowan, FBI."

"Can I help you with something, Officer?" The woman asked innocently.

"I need to see your sales receipts for the last week."

"W…why?"

"This is ridiculous," Buffy hissed under her breath. "We don't have time for this."

"That's top secret, ma'am," Dean frowned seriously. He pushed his way past her and stepped into the store. "Where are they?"

The last splashes of sunlight faded over the evening sky as Dean and Buffy got back into the Impala and gunned the engine. After almost an hour of pain-staking searching, they'd found four possible candidates for the last demonic slumber party. Buffy pushed the phone to her ear while Sam tried to dig up addresses connected to credit card receipts. Dean drove back toward the residential district, already shining his lights into the spreading evening.

"Take a left. The first one is on Miller Avenue." Buffy pointed down the street. She could feel a tingling on the back of her neck, like something was about to go wrong. Turning around in her seat, she found herself staring right into the deep blue eyes of an angel. The phone nearly fell from her hand.

"Cas," Buffy scowled. "We still have time."

"Where the hell did you come from?" Dean choked, skidding the tires around the turn.

"Uriel is a specialist. He will not give you any more time than he deems necessary as per our verbal agreement. He does not believe that you will save the seal."

"And what about you, Cas?" Buffy narrowed her eyes. "What do you think?"

"I am only following orders." Castiel admitted somewhat reluctantly. He was gone in a moment, but his eyes seemed to linger in their minds. Buffy pointed out the directions to Dean, but the angel's unspoken thoughts hovered in her head long after he disappeared. He was only following orders, but maybe he wanted to do more.

"Stay here," Dean grunted roughly. "I'll check it out."

Dean ran up to the house and banged heavily on the door. After several minutes, a man came to the front. They spoke in the darkness, illuminated only by a blue-tinted porch lamp. Dean nodded, stuffed his gun back into the fold in his pants, and returned to the car.

"What's the next one?"

"Hold on, Dean," Sam said over the phone, which Buffy held aloft in one hand. "I think I see… oh shit."

"What? Sammy, what?"

"She's running. The demon… I'm going after it. The seal is in the town cemetery, same spot where all those bodies were buried after the fire. And Giles Corey. He's there too. If the demon opens the seal…" Sam trailed off. The phone went dead.

Dean threw the car into gear and spun the tires as he raced down the street toward the cemetery. The demon was getting desperate. Maybe it even knew they were in pursuit. It wasn't even eight-thirty and the sacrifice was already dead. Using the body of a possessed thirteen-year old in head gear, it raced through the town on foot. Splashing through sprinkler puddles, tall grass, and across warm pavements, Belphegor bolted toward the seal. Sam followed, almost licking its heels. Ruby's hot blood pulsed through his body, urging him faster, harder. He could almost taste the demon's sticky black essence, and oh God, how he wanted to really savor it. It would make him stronger, strong enough to fight Lilith, strong enough to kill her. And for a poison, it tasted like Heaven.

The girl came to a stop among the eldest of headstones. Sam continued through the overgrown tombs, stumbling through the broken stones and poison ivy. Even at a distance, he could see the demon involved in some sort of ritualistic move. It held out one arm and released five drops of liquid upon the ground. It's mouth moved slowly, having trouble pronouncing the words while wearing headgear. Sam held out one arm, his hand grasping at the air, the knuckles so strained that they turned white.

"Stop right there," Sam growled viciously, ducking his chin and lifting his eyes. The demon turned, smirking.

"Sam Winchester," it chuckled, lisping slightly. "What a pleasant surprise. You've come unarmed."

"Not exactly," Sam grinned wickedly.

At the edge of the cemetery, Dean and Buffy ripped out of the car and slammed the doors. They ran down the paths between the jagged headstones, following the lilting sounds of Sam's voice. Dean drew his gun from the makeshift holster at his back. Alongside him, Buffy yanked a trusty stake from the pocket of her jeans. A cloud of black smoke poured from the girl's mouth as the Slayer approached. She'd seen it before, this peculiar dispossession, but this was different. Sam seemed to be doing it without the aid of a spell, a book, or a trap. The demon seemed to just stand there and take it.

"What the…?" Buffy hissed to Dean as the cloud dissipated into the evening. Dean simply stared into the night, his brow hovering heavily over his green eyes. He clutched the pistol's butt tighter, until he could no longer feel his fingers.

"You saved the seal," Uriel grunted, his eyes beady and his mouth screwed up as though he'd sucked on a lemon. He seemed disappointed. No need to nuke the town after all.

"But at a price," Castiel finished. "Sam, your ability is not to be trusted and should not be used."

"I'm saving people. If I dispossess them, they don't have to die. We don't have to stab them with the knife or hurt them or shoot them. That girl could have died, but I saved her!"

"Sam," Dean said, giving his brother a violent stare.

"What are you all so angry about? We saved the seal. We saved the town. Nobody else died. Nobody else had to die."


	6. No More Dreaming of the Dead

**Chapter 6: No More Dreaming of the Dead**

"You got what you wanted, right? Nobody died. What is your problem, Dean? Everything turned out fine!" Sam threw his arms up in the air, exasperated.

"That…weird psychic shit, Sammy? It isn't normal. I thought you stopped all that. I thought it was over."

"Well, it isn't. I'm using it to help people, Dean. I'm not like those other people. I'm not using it for evil."

"Sammy, the Yellow-Eyed Demon gave you that…thing. You think it's good? You think it can be used like that? It's just going to put you in danger. It's going to put us all in danger."

"What happened to you in Hell, Dean? When did you lose your spine?"

"It's all about priorities, Sam. What are you willing to give up for that little psychic parlor trick?" Dean shook his head and got in the car. He sat heavily in the driver's seat and turned on the engine. Sam sat down silently in the backseat, his face turned away. A moment later, Buffy returned from the bathroom inside the gas station. She slid into the front seat and shut the door. Before Dean could touch the radio, Buffy flicked the dial. She found the national news station and turned up the sound.

"One brave man made national headlines today when he miraculously survived a devastating car crash in Corvallis, Oregon. The man, Mister Leonard Chilbane, age 42, was working on the engine of a neighbor's car in the garage outside his home in Corvallis, when the neighbor, Mister James Axe, 45, accidently drove the car into the concrete garage wall. Chilbane was crushed between the car and the wall for several minutes before paramedics arrived on the scene. When the car was removed, Chilbane had several broken bones, but no internal bleeding of any kind. Doctors say his rate of healing is so incredible that they have asked Chilbane to donate his blood and bone marrow to the Oregon Department of Health for analysis. Chilbane is mobile and expects to be working on Axe's car again by the end of the week."

"Let me guess. Comic book superhero?" Dean blinked, turning off the radio to stare at it.

"I don't even heal that fast," Buffy shuddered, as though reacting to a mysterious draft. "Not even when I drink my milk and get a good night's sleep."

"Oregon," Sam mumbled in the back. "Long drive."

"If we haul ass, we can get there in a couple days. Lenny'll be back to leaping tall buildings by then."

Buffy reached over to turn the radio on again, and switched the player back over to a classic rock station. Dean fiddled with the volume as they drove out toward the highway, headed west.

The drive to Corvallis took almost seventy-two hours of solid traveling. Every hunter took a long shift behind the wheel, split up by restless naps or vacant staring episodes in the backseat. They stopped to eat at cozy diners along the highway, and to stretch their legs at rest stops, but otherwise continued along the endless length of the Eisenhower interstate highway system. Buffy whittled stakes into sharp and deadly splinters, so many of them that they filled their own compartment in the garrison the Winchesters kept in the Impala's trunk. When it was too dark to see her work, she stared out at the night, watching the shadows of trees race by beneath the lazy shine of the moon. In Wyoming, Dean looked through the rearview mirror at Sam, sleeping peacefully in the back. Shrugging, he leaned an arm on the back of the front seat and touched Buffy's shoulder. She looked up, surprised into consciousness.

"What happened?" He asked quietly, pulling his hand back to his side of the seat. The question was left open to interpretation, but at the same time, she knew what he meant.

Buffy looked over at his face, half-hidden in the darkness. In Wyoming, there were no lights on the interstate. The stars gathered in the millions above the vast open sky. There was no moon tonight, and only the glow of the lights on the dashboard played on Dean's face. She'd asked herself that same question of him. What had happened? Was it just the stress of a job that never seemed to end? Was there more to it than that?

"I died," Buffy sighed, turning her attention back to the window. "A few years ago, I died to save my sister, Dawn. I was finally free."

"What was it like? Heaven, I mean." Dean whispered, awed.

"I don't remember much of it. But I know that I was happy. I knew my family was safe, and I could just be happy. I met Castiel there."

"Yeah," Dean frowned.

"It was different. He was different. I don't know if what we shared was even real. But at the time…it was nice. My best friends pulled me out. They brought me back." Bitterness and stress rolled over her in waves as she continued. He watched the transformation, there in the darkness. Tension brought out the small veins and ligaments in her neck and shoulders. Her muscles flexed and her skin tightened.

"Life hasn't been the same since."

The way she seemed to pause in the story rather than stop suggested there was more to it than that. Buffy Summers carried her history around with her like a lead ball attached to a chain. He waited, but she never said anything else. Instead, Buffy drifted back into the somber night, staring out at the stars with vague interest. After almost an hour, when Dean's eyes had become heavy and drowsy with sleep, she spoke again.

"You crawled out of your grave too," she murmured without looking at him.

"How'd you know?" He asked without any hint of surprise in his voice. Of course she knew. She'd done it too.

"Your hands," she shrugged. "I don't know. I guess I could just…feel it."

"I wasn't in Heaven," Dean sighed. "Sam died, and I couldn't…I couldn't just let him die." Dean stared out the windshield, his thoughts flashing back to the stone cold corpse of his brother. "I sold my soul for his life."

Without a word of acknowledgment, Buffy stretched out her hand and placed it over his. There was nothing else to say. Dean peeled his eyes away from the golden yellow stripes on the empty open highway. He glanced down at her small hand, patterned with scars and reminders, carrying the weight of all her unspoken baggage. He turned his hand over and opened the palm. They stayed that way, quiet and reflective, until sunrise.

Sam drove into the Corvallis city limits at ten minutes past eleven. The road was illuminated with lazy overhead lights, but the streets were mostly empty at such a late hour on a Monday. He pulled into a quiet motel to one side of the highway and parked the car. Dean got out of the passenger side and rented two rooms. He handed the second key to Sam and they parted ways for the night. Sam looked over his shoulder at them as he unlocked his room and stepped over the threshold. They stood close to one another, but their skin never touched. They reminded him of two frightened teens on a first date at a movie house.

Buffy set her bag on one of the queen beds and assessed the room. The wallpaper smelled faintly of stale cigarette smoke, but the floors and beds were clean. A few towels sat fluffy and clean over the shower on a steel rack. The toilet paper roll had been folded to a point. For $50 a night, it was a nice looking place. She shrugged and removed her leather jacket, swinging it around the shoulders of a high-backed chair. Across the room, Dean set a couple bottles of beer on the dresser and opened them with a flick of his wrist. The sound of their spray briefly filled the empty room. He raised his, tipped out the bottom to her, and knocked it back into his mouth. Buffy clasped her bottle in one hand and sat down on the edge of her bed.

"Dean," Buffy started without looking at him. They hadn't said anything more to one another since that night in Wyoming. Almost a day had passed since that moment, but she hadn't found the courage to speak up. Since it had happened, she'd never spoken to anyone about the details. She'd never spoken to anyone involved until Castiel showed up in a booth at her old diner. It had never passed from her memory, but it had never been brought up for show and tell either.

"Hm," Dean replied, turning his full attention to her. He set the beer down on the floor and removed his jacket. The burn on his shoulder had almost faded away. Only the faintest of red blotches remained where Castiel's hand had raised him from Hell.

"I killed…people," Buffy admitted, almost choking on the final word. They weren't just people. "They weren't just people. They were my people. They were my army, an army of girls that could have been Slayers. They were potential Slayers, the girls that might be chosen if I died. We were facing Hell-the end of the world. It was bad. I couldn't do it alone. We trained them as much as we could, but I knew…I knew they wouldn't make it. I sent them in anyway. I killed them."

Buffy stared straight ahead. Her hands, her shoulders, her entire body seemed to quiver. It was only the slightest tremor, something you couldn't see from far away. She didn't cry. Her eyes didn't even glisten with the possibility of tears. She only quivered. Gooseflesh popped up on her forearms for a moment before it disappeared. Her mouth formed the words again. I killed them.

Dean set the beer aside, half-empty. He got to his feet and walked across the few feet of space between them. At first, he was unsure of what to do. His mind blanked, and he could think of nothing to say. What was there to say? He couldn't offer forgiveness or advice. He knew she had meant to do it, meant to sacrifice their lives for the greater good. He knew that she had succeeded in saving the world because they were both here, now, surviving however poorly. There was nothing to say, no solace or comfort. Dean crouched on the floor in front of her. He took one of her hands in his and squeezed it. Her skin was cold and dry, as though she'd been standing outside in the midst of winter. Her eyes looked vacant and yet so full of pain and guilt that they threatened to brim over. Her skin took on a jaundiced pallor that made her appear sickly and close to death.

He stood up on his knees until his face was level with hers. Tilting her head back slightly with his free hand, he kissed her. Her lips were dry and slightly chapped and as cold as the rest of her skin. Her mouth returned the gesture without neediness or insecurity. She wanted the feeling but not desperately. She wanted to kiss him but not passionately. He stood back and looked at her face. In her eyes, he could see himself, the same agony and the same guilt. He would tell her soon, but not yet. Not now.

Instead, he pulled the sheets and comforter back. He dug through her bag and found a large, baggy black shirt and a pair of pajama shorts. He'd never seen her wear them, but they had to belong to her. She didn't put up much resistance, and he was able to remove her thin red muscle shirt and her tight black jeans in favor of the loose-fitting night clothes.

"I can't sleep," she whispered hoarsely when she looked at the bed. "I won't sleep."

"You don't have to sleep, Buffy," Dean murmured, reminding himself of the way he used to take care of Sam when their father spent nights away. "Just lie down and close your eyes."

Buffy slid her pale and smooth legs under the covers. On the other side of the bed, Dean kicked off his shoes and took off his belt. Fully dressed in old denim jeans and a white tee shirt, he pulled back the bed covers and crawled onto the mattress beside her. She didn't need much urging to curl up beside him. Her head rested on a few pillows alongside his abdomen and his arm tucked naturally behind her head. Dean grabbed the television remote off the nightstand and flicked on the tube. _Ghostbusters_ was playing and Buffy found a tiny hint of a smile crossing her lips. She'd always watched this movie with her mother and Dawn. The same old scenes never seemed to get old.

By eight in the morning, the last of the sci-fi bloggers, camera men, and news reporters packed up their crap and rolled back out of town. Dean looked at Sam through the rearview mirror. They hadn't spoken much since the weird psychic mojo back in Massachusetts, but if any day was Sam Winchester's time to shine, it was this one. Rather than play that same old FBI card, Sam had decided to fit in with the crowd. Adjusting his thin, poorly tied necktie, Sam Winchester became Donald Tufnel, blogger and amateur paranormal hunter.

"What's a blogger?" Dean asked, knitting his eyebrows together.

"A reporter that can't find a paying gig," Sam shrugged. He squirmed out of the car and flipped open a page in his notebook. "You guys should stay here."

"Uh, why exactly?" Buffy asked.

"Neither of you even knows what a blogger is; let alone how to act like one. You're too conspicuous. I'll just go interview the guy and see what I can find out."

"What are we supposed to do in the meantime?"

"Research," Sam shrugged. "I'll meet you guys at the library. See what you can dig up."

"Great," Dean groaned. "We've become Sam."

Dean parked the Impala beneath the shade of a tree and slid out of the car. Buffy followed him into the library, where they were directed by a rather snotty looking librarian to the town records. The most recent newspapers sat on wooden dowel rods like pigs on a spit. The rest for that year had been neatly folded in cabinets, sorted by date.

"So, what do we want to know?" Dean blinked, looking around at the empty filing room.

"Well, we have the victim, right? Mr. Chilbane. He should have died, but he didn't."

"Demon mojo?"

"Maybe a radioactive spider?"

"Maybe he's just born with it."

"What, like a Maybelline commercial?"

"Huh?"

"Never mind. Let's just start with Leonard and see where that goes."

Sam met them almost an hour later, still holed up in the town records department, on the sub-basement level of the Corvallis Public Library, main branch. He sat down on the edge of a table and looked at Dean. Buffy leaned over his shoulder, reading.

"How goes the research?" Sam asked, startling both of them with the sudden burst of noise. Buffy stood back from the newspaper table and adjusted her eyes to see Sam's features. Dean scowled.

"Mr. Leonard Chilbane isn't a mutant," Dean determined.

"He's also a pretty devout Methodist, so he's probably not working the demon mojo."

"So you have nothing, then?" Sam frowned, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand.

"Not nothing," Dean shook his head. "According to this article, dated about a month ago, Jimmy Sharp died from complications during a severe asthma attack while playing soccer for school tryouts. In this paper, there are ten deaths in the Corvallis area."

"Most of them are old people," Buffy shrugged. "One man had a heart attack at age 58, and one of them is Jimmy, but the rest are all over 75 and leave behind their grand-children and some decent property."

"Then the next day," Dean demonstrated by opening the newspaper to the obituaries. "Nothing."

"And the next," Buffy pointed to the next day's paper. "And the next. Right up until today. No deaths in Corvallis. Period."

"Okay, so that's…weird." Sam mumbled.

"No, what's weird is that it isn't for lack of trying," Dean continued. "For instance, here's Mrs. Abigail Smith. She was talking on her cellular phone and drove through an intersection. A 18 wheeler smashed into her driver's side and the air bag refused to inflate. Her car bent around the bumper of the truck and crushed her cell phone so hard against her face that the numbers are permanently imprinted on her face. But she's fine. She's walking around town with numbers tattooed on her cheek bone, but she healed and walked away from it."

"And then there's Amos Johanssen. He's 98 years old, a heavy smoker, and an alcoholic. He had a quadruple bypass three days after Jimmy Sharp's death. His heart stopped beating for sixteen minutes, but he had continued brain activity. And then his heart started up again. And he lived. He finally stopped drinking and smoking, says he was saved. New lease on life. Blah blah blah."

"There are everyday sorts of things too. Some woman had her plug pulled after her daughter decided to let her rest in peace. She's breathing on her own in the hospital. She isn't awake, but she's not dead."

"Okay, so we're in a town where there hasn't been a single death in a month?" Sam blinked.

"Despite extenuating circumstances…" Dean added.

"So what… Death decided to take a vacation? Go to Bermuda?"

"Doesn't seem like such a bad idea," Buffy muttered dreamily.

"Come on Buffy, Death's important. Life and Death are balances. It's nothing personal. It just…that's the way the world works."

"Because clearly, everyone in this room is balanced by life and death," Dean smirked.

"Dean…" Sam started.

"No, Sam, he's right," Buffy interrupted. "All three of us have been dead at least once. And we've all been called back from wherever it is we went when we died. And now we're here to ask Death why it left? How screwed up is that?"

"What we need to focus on is how to even contact Death without being, you know, dead."

"And for that, we call Bobby," Sam frowned, pulling out his phone.

"No," Buffy shook her head. "For that, we call someone else. I just…" Buffy sighed. "I just need to look up her number."

Buffy stood on the pavement in front of the library, her back to the glossy black Impala. She played with the buttons on her phone, fiddling with the screen until it displayed Willow Rosenberg's phone number. A few drops of sweat rolled down the back of her neck. When she'd walked off the bus and into the desert, Buffy hadn't bothered to say goodbye. She couldn't look at them, couldn't face them. And now, it turned out the Scoobies were needed again. Buffy inhaled and pressed the button on her phone. The number dialed automatically and the Slayer pressed the phone to her ear.

"If there's one thing I've learned," Willow answered the phone conversationally, eerily. "It's that you don't mess with Death."

"Will," Buffy started.

"You're working with him again," Willow said darkly. "The angel."

"Cas," Buffy replied quietly. "Yeah, I am. A Slayer's work is never done."

"Dawnie…we all…"

"Will, please," Buffy choked, trying to keep the distance between them. It wasn't working.

"We don't blame you, Buffy,"

"That's not the point, Will." Buffy paused, trying to control the flood of mixed emotions bubbling up in her blood. "Look, I just need some information."

"About Death. I know. I feel like Cassandra at Troy. I can see you and Dean and Castiel working together toward something…it won't end well, Buffy."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"It doesn't matter. You'll do what you have to do. Just promise me you'll be careful."

"I'll try," Buffy sighed.

Sam leaned against the small square table in Dean and Buffy's motel room. He folded a sheet of notebook paper and grasped in with one sweaty hand. Dean pulled off his shoes and sat down on one of the two queen-sized beds, covered with clean floral bedspreads.

"You know Willow?" Sam asked, surprised. Dean looked between the two of them. He wasn't so shocked by the revelation. Willow had mentioned to him that the hunter she'd known was dead. But he'd always gotten the sense that she wasn't really dead, not literally. It was a figurative death that the witch had meant, and Buffy Summers was the embodiment of a figurative death. He looked at her, sitting on the edge of the other bed. The sadness that normally seemed to defeat her was working overtime.

"Yes. Willow told me that the best way to find Death is to project ourselves into the Spirit World. It's dangerous, and we need someone on the outside to keep our bodies safe. We can't protect ourselves while we're under."

"So, you want me to stay here," Sam sighed.

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "You have a big job here, Sammy. Don't screw it up."

"Oh thanks," Sam muttered.

"Dean and I are going to lie down and close our eyes. You're going to read the incantation. By the time you finish it, Dean and I should be in a trance. If there's trouble, you need to whisper the counter spell in our ear. That'll bring us back, no matter where we are."

"So what are you going to do? How are you going to find Death?"

"That's a good question," Dean noted.

"Jimmy Sharp was the last person that died."

"Yeah, so? He's dead, Buffy. We can't exactly strike up conversation with him."

"But that's the thing," Buffy replied. "He's dead, but he's not."

"Back up. Completely confused," Sam frowned.

"Check this out," Buffy said, pulling out a piece of paper. It was a newspaper clipping from the day of Jimmy's unfortunate death. There were ten obituaries in the paper, one of them belonging to Jimmy Sharp. "These obituaries all occurred the day before Jimmy died. That's why they made the morning edition. Jimmy died that morning, before the edition came out. He was playing soccer for school tryouts, right? Well, at the bottom of the article, it says that his teammate, Alan Preston, was kicked violently during Jimmy's asthma attack. He took a severe and fatal blow to the head. They rushed Jimmy and Alan to the hospital. Jimmy died moments before Alan flat-lined. They thought he was brain-dead. But just as they were about to stop resuscitation, he came back. Alan is in a coma. He's a vegetable. But Jimmy's dead."

"So you think that Jimmy's dead but…what…still around somewhere?"

"Maybe. Maybe he died but he didn't get the chance to cross over. There are only seconds between Jimmy and Alan, but why take one and not the other?"

"So where would Jimmy be?"

"Hospital?" Buffy shrugged.

Buffy closed her eyes. She stared up at the inside of her eyelids and tried not to think. It was a difficult, even impossible task. A thousand thoughts raced through her head, each one linked to the last. She'd finally broken down and told Dean Winchester her big secret, the secret so big that she hadn't spoken of it to anyone, ever. Since that moment, they hadn't mentioned it. More importantly, he hadn't mentioned it. Did he judge her? Did he understand? She couldn't tell. Part of her didn't want to know at all. And then there was Jimmy Sharp. She'd looked for the extra clue, but it had taken her a long time to figure out the connection without help from the Scoobies. Research had never been her strong suit. If she hadn't spoken to Willow, would she ever have figured it out…

"I don't think this is working," Dean said, interrupting her train of thought.

"Ssh," Buffy hushed him.

"Seriously, Buffy," Dean sighed. "I think we're going to have to drink first. I'm just not tired enough to stop thinking."

"I know what you mean," Buffy nodded. She sat up slowly, her head throbbing with the beginnings of a headache.

"Um," Dean choked. "Hey, Buff?"

"What?"

"Uh," Dean pointed. "Look…you're…whoa…"

Buffy looked down at what he'd been gesturing at. Though she was sitting up and could feel the slight movement of gravity around her body, it appeared that she was very clearly lying down. Her head rested heavily on the single pillow tucked beneath her neck. Her eyelashes fluttered slightly in reaction to the movement of her eyes, even in slumber.

"Hey! You're doing it too!" Buffy laughed, pointing to Dean's prone body. Dean looked around and jumped off the bed, leaving his comatose body behind, undisturbed.

"Well hell," Dean smirked. "I take it back. The witch was right."

"Yeah," Buffy nodded. "She's eerie that way."

"Why didn't you mention the thing about the soccer ball to the head?"

"I didn't really think about it until we were sitting there."

"Ah, gotcha. I've been there too. Sam's the researcher. I just get lucky sometimes."

"You know," Buffy murmured as she and Dean passed through the closed double doors and into the Corvallis Hospital. They opened somewhat mystically as soon as Dean brushed like a phantom over the indoor sensor. "I really hate hospitals."

"Yeah," Dean nodded, adjusting his footing to avoid a gurney passing through his midsection. It was a creepy sort of feeling-like letting your foot fall asleep while sitting cross-legged on the floor. "The last time I was in one of these places, I met Death."

"Literally or figuratively?" Buffy asked, looking over her shoulder at him. Her face had taken on a strange appearance, as though her wishy-washy, transparent skin had suddenly lightened. Could a ghost become paler? If it was possible, Buffy seemed to be achieving it.

"Literally. I was dying. She came to reap my soul."

"You Winchesters have died or almost died at least as many times as I have," Buffy frowned, shaking her head. "That's pretty rare."

"We get around," Dean shrugged. He considered asking if she was feeling alright. She certainly didn't look okay. The white-washed walls seemed more colorful than the Slayer. But before he could carry on, Buffy walked up to the reception desk and peered over the records that a nurse had begun to flip through.

On the walk over, Buffy and Dean had discovered that spiritual apparitions were completely lacking in the whole moveable objects arena. Instead, they passed through time and space like, well, ghosts. Things passed through them as well: people, objects, doors, cars. While it felt like a foot with pins and needles to Dean, it felt like being prodded with hot knives to Buffy. Each time it happened, she felt a chill roll down her spine. Worst of all, she felt like something was watching her, possibly even following her. Her Slayer sense kept going off like alarm bells ringing in her ears, but every time she turned around, she saw nothing. At least, nothing out of the ordinary.

"We're never going to find Jimmy's room if we wait around here," Buffy sighed contemplatively.

"You want to split up? Cover more ground?"

"Yeah," Buffy nodded. "I'll try the morgue. You wander the ICU."

"Meet up in the waiting room? In an hour?" Dean confirmed. Buffy nodded. He watched her move almost shakily toward the elevator, already opened to allow for the passage of employees and gurneys. The doors shut in front of her hazy face. She definitely didn't look right.

Dean walked over to the small plastic fire escape map on the wall beside the elevator. He ran his finger through the printed walkways and determined the location of the intensive care unit. Jimmy Sharp was already near death when he finally arrived at the hospital. If he was anywhere, floating around, waiting to cross over, it would be the last place his body had inhabited, the place to which he was tied. If Dean was lucky, he'd still be there, waiting to be picked up by Death. Dean walked down the hall, absent-mindedly reaching into his pocket for his cellular. At times like this, he would call Sam to confirm his findings. Instead, his hand passed through the place where his pocket should have been. Come on, Dean, he thought. You don't have a body. You know this. Just do the job, find the kid, track down Death, and go back to the nice, touchable world. You miss it there. They have beer and hamburgers and pornographic video. He shook his head at his own thoughts. They disappeared, like everything else.

On the last floor above the basement level, Buffy stepped off the elevator. She'd gotten lucky. One of the men in the little metal box was a coroner's assistant, headed to the same destination. She could have ridden that stupid elevator all day if it hadn't been for him! The morgue level at the hospital looked similar to every other morgue she'd ever visited. The walls were painted a mellow army green, a color that resembled split pea soup, and the floors were covered with clicking, clacking linoleum tile. There were no windows in the hall, so everything was lit with dim fluorescent bulbs that seemed to tremble whenever someone walked beneath them.

Buffy watched the coroner's assistant walk through the swinging double doors and into the morgue itself. She followed him closely, slipping into the space between the open doors before it swung closed. The room was lined with stainless steel drawers. It probably could have housed a couple hundred bodies, all lined up and ready for…whatever. Of course, right now, it was empty. The assistant sat down at a small desk in the back of the room and opened his top drawer. He pulled out an egg salad sandwich and a package of baby carrots. Buffy felt the familiar sensation of vomit rise up the back of her throat. How could anyone eat in a room usually occupied by the deceased? Almost a decade in the business of slaying and the mere thought of this guy's job made Buffy want to retch.

She looked around one last time, but it didn't take long to determine that Jimmy Sharp was no occupado. Wherever he was, it wasn't in this place. Good thing too, Buffy sighed. If he was down here, waiting around for Death, he'd have a miserable time. Egg salad and carrots Guy was probably as boring as he was disgusting. Reluctantly, the Slayer passed back through the closed doors. They seemed to swing lightly as she yanked her ankle through them. Strange. On the back of her neck, her skin tingled.

"Okay," she said aloud to the empty hallway. "Whatever you are? You need to stop following me."

"Your wish," a young female voice replied, "is our command, Slayer."

Upstairs in the Intensive Care Unit, Dean slid through the locked door of his fourth room. The first three had been empty, but this one belonged to Alan Preston, the boy with the severe head trauma. Alan Preston was a vegetable. A carrot, Dean thought with a mildly amused chuckle. Poor kid. There was no way Alan could have occupied the same room as his dead soccer buddy, but Dean decided to have a look around anyway. A thin breeze drifted into the room through an air vent near the ceiling. It wafted across Alan's unmoving body, slightly teasing the curly blond hairs on his tousled brow.

"What are you doing here?" A voice yelled angrily. Dean turned around just in time to see a fist smack him in the nose. Dean recoiled, falling backward through the end of Alan's plastic and aluminum gurney.

"Who are you?" The boy demanded, getting ready to throw another punch.

"Whoa, kid, how the hell are you doing that?" Dean put up his hands as a gesture of peace.

"I asked you first," the kid pouted, dropping his hand. He rubbed the fist gingerly with his opposite palm.

"I'm Dean Winchester, and I'm here looking for…well, I guess you. Are you Jimmy Sharp?"

"Yeah but… how can you see me? No one can see me." Jimmy asked, knitting his eyebrows together to express his confusion.

"I'm like Casper, the friendly ghost. Sorta." Dean shrugged. Since astral projection had been a difficult enough concept to grasp the first time around, Dean figured it would lose something in translation.

"What are you doing here?"

"Well, actually," Dean shrugged. "I came to talk to you."

"About what?"

"Uh, okay," Dean tried to think tactfully. Jimmy was a young kid, somewhere around twelve years old. He was probably the only person he knew that had ever died. "Well, you know you're uh…"

"I died."

"Yeah. Ever have one of those goldfish you flush down the toilet? My mom used to tell me that they went up to Goldfish Heaven. Well, you didn't go to Goldfish Heaven, Jimmy. You're still here. In the hospital."

"Goldfish Heaven? I'm twelve years old. I'm not some kid!"

"Right," Dean nodded. "Fine. I'm not good with kids. You're dead. You shouldn't be here. You should have crossed over. But here you are."

"When I died, there was this creepy old guy. He looked really pale and weird and…deflated. And then all this black smoke came out of the air vent," Jimmy gestured to the vent near the ceiling. "The creepy old guy started yelling and I ran off while he was distracted. Every time I see the black smoke…I run. I haven't seen the creepy guy since he came for me. I think the black smoke got him. But…it keeps coming back, and I know it's looking for me."

"Black smoke… I should have…" Dean started. He looked around the room and then up at the air vent. "Come on, kid. We have to find Buffy."

"Who?" Jimmy blinked, his eyes wide.

"My friend, Buffy. We're here looking for you together."

"So where is she?"

"Downstairs in the morgue."

"Oh, really? It's weird down there. One of the guys sits in that room all day and eats egg salad sandwiches."

"With the bodies?"

"Yeah,"

"Ew." Dean frowned. The desire for hamburgers faded out like a dead light bulb.

"What are you doing here?" Buffy asked, looking down into the depths of the army green corridor. They stood in the shadows, two young girls. Their faces were dark and bruised and their eyes were black and haunted. One carried a broad-sword, sticky with fresh inky red blood. The other held a stake, a weapon that had ultimately been useless in combat. It still looked new. It hadn't even been dusted with a fine coating of dead vampire sprinkles.

"The better question, Slayer, is why you are here. We haven't seen you in a long time." The second girl grinned and Buffy could see blood glistening between her grayish teeth.

"Maybe she's finally ready to accept her fate," the first one laughed demonically. "Are you ready, Buffy? We're all waiting for you."

"I wish I could take it back," Buffy whispered, losing her voice suddenly. The sounds rasped on her tongue. Her ghostly skin tingled and trembled. "I'm sorry."

"Aw," the second one growled, advancing on her, her blade raised. "She's sorry. She's sorry she sacrificed us and sent us to Hell!"

"She needs to come visit and see what it's like!"

"Buffy?" Dean blinked, looking down at the Slayer backed into a corner of the long and empty morgue hallway. She was half in and half out of the wall, blending into the scenery. Her skin looked sickly and green, but it might have been the color of the walls. They seemed to bleed right into her.

"Dean," Buffy groaned hoarsely. She struggled to regain her composure. She looked past Dean's shoulder and down the hallway.

"Are you okay? You look like you've seen…"

"Is this Jimmy?" Buffy asked, interrupting him.

"Oh, yeah," Dean nodded. "Jimmy Sharp, this is Buffy Summers. Buffy, Jimmy."

"Hey," Jimmy nodded.

"So what'd you find out?" Buffy asked, guiding the two of them back toward the elevator. The doors began to pull shut. They jumped into the car as it sprang back to life and moved up the shaft.

"It's a demon. According to Jimmy, some black smoke came in through a vent and took Death before the reaper could help Jimmy cross over." As Dean explained, Jimmy reached over and pressed a button on the keypad. It lit up under his finger.

"Whoa," Buffy blinked. She held up a hand to grab Jimmy's arm but it passed through him without effect. "Okay, Jimmy, how'd you do that?"

"I got bored? I've been hanging out in the hospital for a month."

"Can you teach us?"

"I'm feeling very Patrick Swayze," Buffy sighed. She leaned back sleepily against a wall in the hospital waiting room. If she concentrated hard enough, the wall actually supported her. It was an exhausting exercise.

"What happened to you down in the morgue?" Dean asked. He'd crouched down on his knees to push a coffee stirrer across the floor. It was a pretty neat trick. Vaguely, he wondered if poltergeists had to go through this much work to get a bowling ball to take a nosedive into a kitchen sink.

"Nothing," Buffy lied.

"Seriously," Dean frowned, getting to his feet. He looked at her closely, examining her sullen eyes and thin mouth. In the weeks he'd known her, she'd never been particularly overjoyed, but she'd never seemed this lost before either. "What happened?"

"I don't want to talk about it, Dean. Let's just focus on the case."

"I hate secrets, Buffy. Whatever you're hiding, it could put us all in danger."

"Tell me your secret, Dean," Buffy countered, suddenly bending her pretty green eyes to slits. She looked accusatory, even hurtful. She looked like a predator caught in a trap.

"I went to Hell for thirty years," Dean shot back at her. It wasn't the whole truth, but it was a secret. It was something he hadn't even told Sam.

"They attack me in my dreams," Buffy replied, turning away from him. She looked down the hallway, as if trying to gauge an escape route.

"Who?" It took effort, but Dean placed a reassuring and solid hand on Buffy's shoulder. She didn't turn to face him, but neither did she pull away.

"The girls I killed. They've been chasing me for almost a year." Her shoulders sank and the ugly fluorescent overhead lights seemed to phase right through her as her mood sank. "I'm not afraid of anything, Dean. I'm the Slayer. I know what goes bump in the night and I face it. And I kill it. But I'm afraid of them."

"That's why you don't sleep," Dean concluded quietly.

"I can't sleep."

Jimmy, Dean, and Buffy sat staring at the cafeteria ladies. Idly, Dean pushed a tray centimeters closer to the edge of a table until it finally clattered to the floor with a loud bang. Buffy looked up at him, her face fizzling with surprise. They were all getting a bit jumpy. The waiting was getting annoying.

"Isn't there something we can do? Get a sign? Put out some bait?"

"We did put out bait. He's right there. Being bait-y." Buffy gestured to Jimmy with his chin. The boy sat off to one side of the cafeteria, twenty feet away from his watchful hunters. His chair had been perfectly aligned with an air circulation vent, so that if the black smoke "saw" him, it would be able to get at him easily. And maybe miss the hunters at the same time.

"I just mean…well, nothing is happening. He's just…sitting there." Dean frowned, annoyed.

"What do you want, Dean? Neon lights and a come hither sign? We don't want to make it obvious. He's been hiding from them for a month!"

"Ssh," Dean stopped her, lifting a hand to cover her mouth. It passed right through her lips and he pulled his arm away. Above their heads, a trickle of black smoke pooled out of the vent. Jimmy pushed back his chair, causing a few startled looks from the cafeteria staff. The smoke pooled into the room, gathering in size as it bolted toward the boy. Buffy gestured silently to Jimmy, batting her hand in the direction they'd already planned. Jimmy took off running, getting the smoke to follow him through the halls. Dean and Buffy pursued them.

Jimmy stopped dead in front of the hospital's double entrance doors. He looked down one hallway and then the other, planning his escape. The smoke seemed to solidify and from the cloud stretched arms and legs. A face took shape, and to Dean it looked eerily familiar.

"Alastair," Dean growled viciously. The demon turned, smiling a bestial grin. In his human shape, Alastair looked like the sociopathic kid on the playground. His smile was savage and toothy, surrounded by a carefully trimmed red goatee. His hair was cut close to his scalp, fiery red. He wore a dark blue button down shirt and black slacks, the perfect offset to his bright red appearance. Buffy felt a cold shudder as she looked at him.

"What do you want with the kid?" Dean challenged.

"Dean Winchester," Alastair laughed coquettishly. "I've missed you."

"Talk!"

"Why? Are you going to shoot me, Dean? Are you going to attack me? With what?" The demon giggled like a child and squeezed out of an opening in the double doors. Dean followed him, pushing through the doors without waiting for them to open.

"I can't leave," Jimmy whimpered, looking out as Dean and Alastair took off down the street.

"You will soon," Buffy whispered. She could already feel the chill at her back. Over Jimmy's head she could see them, new girls with new weapons. It was time to run. "We'll be back for you."

"Oh Slayer," they cooed, stamping across the vacant hospital hallways, leaving sticky trails of coagulated blood. "It's time…"

Buffy stood up slowly, her arms stretching out in front of her body in a familiar fighting stance. She stood in front of the boy, dead but still vulnerable to other dead things. They frightened her the way few things ever had, but that wasn't important. The kid was in danger. He was the only thing that mattered.

"Oh look," one of the girls grinned, "she's fighting back."

"Good," the other girl giggled. "I came here for a good brawl. She's more fun to kill when she's feisty."

"Will you just shut up and fight?" Buffy asked, narrowing her eyes.

They came at her from either side, swinging weapons and yelling like banshees. Neither girl had a particular form. They weren't the specific souls of deceased Potentials. They reminded Buffy of demons or angry spirits, figments of a Hellish imagination. One, a red-head with zombie-like skin and moldy-looking teeth, carried a double-headed axe, which she swung around her head like a whip in an Indiana Jones movie. The other, tow-headed with freckled pink skin and bloodshot red eyes, had a long and thin katana. The Slayer was unarmed, but that fact had never hindered her before. She crossed the empty reception area, throwing a high kick into the face of the sword-swinging Slayerette. The girl reeled backward, actually impacted by the blow. The other girl took a hard hit to the cheek with Buffy's fist. Maybe they hadn't expected her to fight back. They seemed like they'd never even trained to fight. Their reactionary hits and kicks were too slow, and their offensive blows fell short. Buffy wrestled the axe away from the redhead and swung it through the air, severing the blonde's rotten face from her neck. The apparition disappeared suddenly, leaving Buffy panting in the middle of the waiting room. A nurse crossed the divide between the elevator and the reception desk. Buffy fell back to Jimmy. The axe had dissipated along with her opponents.

Jimmy, too, had taken off. The reception area was nearly deserted. Buffy looked around, her hands shaking at her sides. Had she just battled the demons that had been wrestling with her for months? Was that it? What the hell were you so afraid of? She slid through the doorway and took off down the street. Three blocks ahead of her, Dean Winchester scrambled after a cloud of inky black smoke drifting through the dark evening. It squeezed through a crack in the stone wall of a mausoleum. Dean tried to pierce the stone as well, but it held fast against him.

"Spirit proof, right?" Dean asked the stone barrier. He forced his concentration into his hands, an effort that required more work than he'd thought. His hands slid uselessly off the door the first few times he tried, as though he were trying to wedge the door open with a wet fish. Closing his eyes, Dean took a deep breath. His fingers pried at the door and managed to bust it open. It whined on its hinges and fell down into the damp cemetery grass near his feet.

"Dean," Alastair laughed, inviting him in with a wave of his hand. "Welcome. You're just in time."

The demon grinned blissfully and removed a long knife from the pocket of his pants. He stood in the center of a candlelit circle. Under his feet, a symbol had been scrawled in blood. On the symbol itself, standing in Alastair's clutches like a sack of old potatoes, was Death. It wasn't the reaper Dean was familiar with. This guy was old-as old as dirt itself. He had that weird deflated look that Jimmy had mentioned, like someone had sucked all the air out of his skin. His wrinkles were creased and dirty and dry. He'd probably crumble into dust if you moved him too fast.

"You can't kill Death," Alastair smiled thoughtfully, his eyes darkening as he spoke. "Not really. Death is a part of Life, no matter what kind of creature you are. But reapers…reapers you can kill."

The reaper's blood spilled upon the concrete floor, drenching the symbol with sickly black fluid. The body fell from the demon's hand and seemed to splinter when it hit the ground. The candles extinguished, and though he did not feel the earth move, Dean knew that another seal had been opened.

"One step closer to the big party," Alastair winked.

"You'll pay," Dean whispered coolly, eyeing him from the doorway.

"I'll pay? Oh Dean, what happened to you? I miss my old friend, the ruthless Dean, the violent Dean. Who are you now, boy? Just a sad, pathetic drunk." The demon shook his head, almost sadly. His body disintegrated into a plume of black smoke that rose toward a pinhole in the ceiling. He was gone in a moment, and the seal stood gaping like a hole in the Earth.

"Dean," Buffy murmured, stepping into the building behind him. He stood stock still in the dark, barely breathing.

"Come on," she urged him, touching his shoulder. He spun around and looked at her, his eyes so angry that she barely recognized him. "We need to get back."

"Death is coming for Jimmy," Dean murmured. "You can't stop it. You can only postpone it."

"He was scared before," Buffy frowned. "I'll talk to him."

She stood on the path in front of the hospital entrance. Her hair was cut short and her slender body was pale but well-built. This wasn't Death's real appearance any more than the deflated man had been Death's real skin, but she was less frightening. Dean recognized her immediately.

"Tessa," he whispered, surprised to see her.

"Dean," she nodded with a small smile. "I did not expect to see you again."

"You're here for Jimmy," Dean grunted.

"Yes. He is hiding from me. He is frightened."

"Seems reasonable. You're going to kill him."

"He's already dead, Dean. Just as you were… just as Buffy was." Tessa nodded quietly to the Slayer, but she had already taken off into the hospital. Somewhere, between the quiet pea green halls, Jimmy Sharp, twelve year old ghost, was hiding from Death.

"I should have stayed with you," Dean admitted. He looked down at the ground. The gray cement path seemed to shimmer under the streetlights. "I shouldn't be here."

"Yes," Tessa nodded. "It was your time to die. Your fight has long since ended. This is borrowed time, Dean. Every day you live is a day you should not have lived."

"I couldn't leave them," Dean shook his head angrily. "They're my family. Sam…he needed me."

"He will always feel as though he needs you, Dean. He is your brother. But you must accept your own life and your own death. Soon, your time will come to an end again. When it does, you will not be able to say no."

Buffy drifted into the empty room where Jimmy Sharp had once lived, struggled, and died. The child sat on the bed his body had once occupied. He gazed at the white wall but saw nothing. Buffy stood next to him. She crossed her arms over her chest, found the gesture uncomfortable, and let them fall uselessly to her sides. She sat down on the bed, concentrating so she wouldn't fall right through it. She opened her mouth to speak, but was unsure of what to say. The words came naturally, from nowhere.

"You've already done the scary part," she said, allowing her thoughts to fade into memories. "You dealt with the pain. You saw your parents mourn you. That's all the hard stuff. The easy part comes next."

"I don't want to leave," Jimmy frowned.

"Why? Are you happy here? Do you feel safe?"

"No…"

"I've died a couple times, Jimmy. Every time is different, but the last time? I went to Heaven. It was this really great place where I got to live the life I always wanted. I knew my family was safe. I knew they were okay, even happy. And I was happy. That's what Death is like, Jimmy."

"But the weird deflated guy? I don't want to be like him!"

"You won't," she replied, touching his shoulder. "If you stay here forever, in the hospital, you might look like him. But if you cross over…if you let Death take you…you'll be happy. What makes you happy, Jimmy?"

"My mom," Jimmy admitted. A single tear welled up in his ghostly eye but didn't fall. "And soccer. I always wanted to play, but I couldn't run much because of my asthma."

"When you get up there," Buffy smiled, patting his shoulder. "You'll get to play forever without getting sick."

"And my mom?"

"She'll be there."

"But how? She's still…at my house."

"I don't know exactly. But she'll be there. Trust me. Nothing to be scared of, okay?"

Buffy and Jimmy stood outside the hospital room, waiting for Death. They stood holding hands, facing the stairs. Jimmy watched heads bob up over the top step, his arm straining eagerly out from Buffy's body. And then, all at once, he stood back and looked up at her. His large brown eyes took on a glimmer of sadness, and his brows bent over them, shadowing his long lashes.

"If you died and crossed over or whatever, how come you're here?"

"I wasn't finished yet," Buffy answered quietly. She, too, watched heads bob over the stairs. Among the paper caps of nurses came Tessa and Dean. Dean's eyes were cloudy and serious, lost in a hundred confusing thoughts. Death looked peaceful and happy. "But you are. It's your turn."

Buffy ignored the tingle on the back of her neck. It was nothing. She was only reminiscing about her own experiences with Reapers, the good ones and the bad. The memories of Heaven were fuzzy, but one seemed to stand out from the fog. She was wearing her prom dress and dancing, dancing to the serenade of some pop song that never seemed to get old. Castiel's bright blue eyes stared into hers, and it made her want to smile back at him. Down the hall, Dean lifted his arm and began to run. His mouth opened and he yelled. Buffy looked up at him, jerking her mind out of her memories. The stake stabbed her viciously from behind, slicing into her abdomen and spilling blood. Her knees trembled and she turned to face her attacker. There was nothing there, not even the tingle on the back of her neck. In her mind, she could hear the faint whisper of Sam Winchester's voice, urgent in its muttering. Dean was in the background too, somewhere close by but distant too.

"Sam! Pull the car around! Buffy! Buffy, you're going to be okay…"


	7. Couldn't Wash the Echoes Out

**Chapter 7: Couldn't Wash the Echoes Out**

Her knock was light on the door, but Sam jerked his head up from the television screen like a cat watching a mouse out of the corner of his eye. The remote fell from his hand and onto the floor. A commercial about some sensational new product muddled into the background as he opened the door. Though only a small woman, Ruby filled the frame. Swirls of dark brown hair framed her pale face. Her dark brown eyes were as deep as bottomless pools. He could have screamed into them and never heard his voice echo back. She smiled-a tiny hint of a smile that drifted across her smooth pink lips like dark clouds falling over a clear blue day. Sunlight seemed to shrink back out of the room. Sam held out a hand and invited her in.

"It's getting harder and harder to track you down, Sam," Ruby whispered seductively, almost sadly. "I've been looking for you all day."

"I missed you," Sam murmured, dropping his eyes almost immediately, like a puppy in trouble for peeing on the rug.

"Don't be ashamed, Sam. I missed you too."

"I shouldn't be seeing you like this. You're a demon…"

"Do you think Dean would understand? He has no idea what you're capable of, Sammy. He doesn't want to know." She touched his shoulder, caressing the strong muscle beneath the soft cloth of his shirt.

"But…" Sam pleaded, more with his own conscience than with the beautiful woman before him. He'd been keeping secrets for weeks, secrets from the most important person in his life. And yet…maybe it was better this way. Dean had his own problems. He'd taken up a new interest. He had the Slayer to worry about now.

"We have work to do, Sam," Ruby whispered, touching his cheek with the tip of her finger. "There are demons in this town, powerful demons."

"I can't leave them," Sam frowned, looking back over his shoulder at Dean and Buffy, lying unconscious on their beds.

"It's okay…I'll watch them for you." Sympathy rolled up into her eyes, making them glitter with concern. "Go find the demon, Sam. Stop him. Dean and Buffy are damaged…they aren't strong enough. They'll fail."

"But how will I know where to go?"

"Can't you smell them yet? Can't you taste them?"

"What are you…?" Sam blinked, confused. He cocked his eyebrow and twisted his head to one side. "No…"

"Oh Sam," Ruby pouted. "We have so much to do and so little time."

Her hand was small, slender, and strong in his. She pulled him across the room and through an open door into the generously designed bathroom. The wall grunted as she smacked his shoulders against it. Her mouth tasted like candied sour apples and her skin smelled like musk and soil. His eyes fell shut but hers stayed open, staring. Watching. Sam's hands were reluctant to touch her at first, to embrace the body, to accept the demon. He'd always been wary of her when they first came together, but the attention span of his conscience seemed to be wavering. He clutched at her soft black shirt, tore at the hem of her dusky leather jacket, yanked at the hips of her slim denim jeans.

The zipper unzipped and Sam pushed the jeans down over her smooth white buttocks, her toned thighs, her muscular calves. She sat down on his hips and threw back her head to accept the violence of his mouth upon her skin. Break it, she seemed to ask him with her throaty gasps of pleasure. Break the skin and feed on me. I'll make you stronger, Sam. I'll help you kill her.

Her blood was an elixir, a drug, ambrosia. He could feel it burn down his throat and flare in his nostrils. He could smell her, and the scents made him feel heavy with drink and yet light like a feather. He flipped her back against the wall and jerked into her, sucking at her veins. Her whimpering, crying ecstasy only made him drive her harder. Could you break a demon? Would she hurt tomorrow? Probably not. At each meeting, he seemed rougher, more brutal, and yet, each time, she smiled from head to toe. With a final grunting moan, Sam pulled back his hands and let her drop to her feet. He stood back, his lips and chin damp, his thirst unbearable. He threw his head beneath the sink's faucet and turned on the water, filling up his throat with stale, steely tap water.

"We should see more of each other," she murmured, stroking the side of his face with her fingertips.

"We can't slow down," Sam sighed, shaking his head. "The seals…we need to protect them."

"The seals will only slow her down, Sam. She only has to open sixty-six. There are hundreds. You can't protect them all. You can't be everywhere at once."

"But…"

"You know in your heart that you'll be fighting this battle in the end, Sam. The only way to defeat Lilith is to kill her. You're almost ready." Her hand was light, so light and soft. She didn't feel evil. She felt safe. Right. "Can you smell me, Sam?"

"I can taste you," he groaned.

"You can hunt them down by their smell alone. You can…"

She was cut off suddenly by a sharp grunt in the next room. Sam stumbled out of the bathroom, pulling at the button on his jeans. The Slayer was bleeding onto the bed, leaving a spreading dark stain. Sam swore under his breath and grabbed at the small scrap of paper on top of the table. He began to read the words aloud, as quickly and clearly as he could. Dean's eyes shot open, his mouth in mid-sentence. On the bed beside his, Buffy's hands struggled shakily to cover the bloody mess that gradually increased over her midsection.

"Sam!" Dean yelled, shoving Sam out of his stupor. He looked up and around. The bathroom door was shut. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Blood came away on his wrist. "Pull the car around!"

"Right," Sam muttered, grabbing the keys off the table. He ran from the room, glancing only momentarily at the bathroom where Ruby still stood, waiting in silence. He could hear Dean talking as he ran out the door and into the parking lot.

"Buffy! Buffy, you're going to be okay…"

Sam pushed open the passenger door and Dean slid in, holding the Slayer against his chest. Blood had soaked into his sleeve, his tee shirt, the front of his jacket. He stared out the window, shouting directions at Sam. They weren't far away from the hospital, but every second counted. Where had they hit her? Where was all this blood coming from? Didn't she have super powers or something? Shouldn't she be okay?

"Here! Stop the car!" Dean kicked open the door and lifted her out, still held tightly between his forearms. She was surprisingly light, probably due to her disturbing lack of nutritional intake. Even with all that muscle, she felt more like a bushel of apples than a sack of potatoes. Blood continued to gush from the wound. Dean slammed through the emergency room doors and tried to hold her aloft.

"I need some help here!" He yelled at the staff, most of them still occupied with their own thoughts. A nurse ran up, and an orderly followed with a gurney on wheels. Dean tried to place her carefully on the mattress but she still managed to curse in pain.

"What's her name?" A man asked, a tag on his shirt labeling him a doctor. The nurse and the orderly began to push the gurney down the hall, just like an episode of _E.R. _

"Buffy," Dean gasped, out of breath. He took a piece of the gurney in his hand and helped guide it down the hall.

"What happened? Were you there?"

"She was stabbed in the back with a sharp stick, like a tent spike."

"Did you see the attacker?"

"No…" Dean huffed. "No."

"You need to stay here, sir. We'll take care of her." The nurse was prying him away, releasing his hand from the bed. He pushed past her.

"No, I'm going…don't!" Dean quarreled abrasively. "She's…she's my wife!"

"We'll take care of her, sir. Please…please come with me." She touched his hand and cautiously tore him again from the bed. Dean's hands dropped uselessly at his sides. He starred at her as they pushed her down another hall. His heart beat like drums in his chest.

"Sir," the nurse murmured, urging Dean back to reality. He looked down at her. She was a young woman, probably in her late twenties or early thirties. She had dark brown hair, tied back in a simple pony tail. The hair was short enough that when she tied it behind her head, it stuck out in a brief spike before falling down to brush the nape of her neck. Her eyes were blue and crystal clear. She had two freckles beside her nose.

"What?" Dean asked, blinking slowly. His hands felt sticky and damp. He wiped them on his pants, but there was still blood under his fingernails.

"Why don't you come with me, sir? We'll get all of your wife's information."

My wife, Dean thought, rolling the sound of it over in his head. Where had that come from? She was going into the emergency room. She could have been his twin and they'd still make him wait outside. Why did he make Buffy his wife?

"Sure," Dean nodded. "I just…it's in the car."

"Good," she nodded, patting his hand. "How about we go and get it?"

"No…I…" Dean paused. He'd have to do some serious searching to find female information in the glove box. "My brother is in the car. He can…help me."

Sam looked up. He sat behind the wheel, looking up reflexively into the rearview mirror. Every nerve in his body seemed to be tingling. He could smell…something…in the hospital. There was definitely something in there, something that smelled…intoxicating. Dean pulled open the passenger door, knocking the thought away like a pinball thrown off course.

"How is she?"

"Emergency room. I told them she's my wife."

"Uh, okay…" Sam frowned, confused. "Why not your sister?"

"It just came out, Sam!" Dean growled as he threw open the glove box and pulled out his batch of IDs. He flipped through them hurriedly.

"Dean, what…what happened?"

"Later," Dean grunted. "Here."

Dean pulled out two bright blue insurance cards and a couple of licenses. They weren't his and he'd never used them. What occasion they'd actually come from was a mystery, but here they were at the right time and the right place. Dean glanced down at the names. Angus and Rebecca Samuels from California. Dean handed the IDs to Sam.

"Hurry," he said.

"Right," Sam nodded. Dean got out of the car and Sam peeled out of the lot.

Dean went back into the hospital and looked blankly at a row of empty blue plastic chairs. A couple stood near a payphone. The husband spoke quietly into the receiver while he held his wife's trembling hand. She wept on his shoulder uncontrollably. It dawned on him slowly, much too slowly, that in the last few minutes, Death had been restored. They were grieving their loss. For a moment, a long moment, Dean's heart stopped beating.

"Dean,"

Dean spun around to catch himself staring wildly at Castiel. The angel's face was blistered with concern, his eyes deep and dark pools of agony. Like Dean, his arms hung flaccid at his sides, useless. He'd balled his hands into tight fists.

"Cas," Dean exhaled sharply. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I saw what happened. The seal…" He started gruffly.

"It isn't important. Buffy is in the hospital, Cas!"

"You didn't let me finish. Buffy is very…" The angel paused. His voice seemed to change, to get lost in a sudden and frankly strange emotional change. "…important to the mission."

"We brought back Death, Cas. She's going to die in there!"

"She is strong, Dean," Cas replied. He seemed to gulp as he did it, as if he didn't really believe it. "She will not die."

"I need to see her." He felt his knees tremble, and the blue plastic chairs became more and more appealing. "I need to make sure she's okay."

The angel's eyes fell on Dean Winchester, a man locked in combat with invisible restraints. His eyes pleaded with the doctors and nurses, begging them to work faster, to do everything in their power and more. He felt responsible-that much was clear. In the last few days, he'd made a quiet vow to himself to take care of her, to watch out for her. She didn't need the kind of lookout that he'd once provided for Sam. She could fight her own battles. Buffy was the Slayer, the Chosen One. She'd faced Hell and Heaven and come back from both. No. What Buffy needed was someone to trust, someone that understood her, someone to keep her heart safe.

That person had once been Castiel.

"D…Angus," Sam started, walking quickly down the hall with his hand outstretched. He passed the identification cards into Dean's hand and then looked past him to Castiel.

"Uh…Cas…" Sam frowned nervously.

"Sam," Castiel grunted without affection. Sam slumped into an empty blue chair and stared at the floor. Dean perched himself on the chair beside Sam and began filling out paperwork. His scrawl was sloppy and difficult to read, but he managed to get through the first page by making up miscellaneous information. He turned the page over and looked blankly at the medical history list.

"No allergies," Cas said without prompting. "No medications. No surgical history of note."

"Thanks," Dean grunted, ignoring the page of information. He signed his name, Angus Samuels, on the dotted line and took the clipboard up to the nurse. She took his insurance cards and let him return to his seat.

Time passed in silence. Dean walked up to the end of the hallway and back down it again. Castiel hovered in a corner, as still as a statue. Sam flipped through a magazine, ignoring every word. At every clicking heel on the hallway floor, Dean's head whipped around like a cat watching a bird through a window. At last, the doctor that had strolled alongside Buffy down the hallway appeared. Dean zipped across the waiting room and threw himself in front of the man.

"What's going on in there? What's happening? How is she?"

"You're her husband?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "Just tell me. Is she gonna be okay?"

"Your wife has a lacerated kidney and a ruptured spleen. We're about to bring her in for surgery. This is a very serious condition. The spike, as you called it, went deep when it pierced her back. When the spleen is ruptured, blood leaks into and out of the body. We're doing everything we can for her, but…" he paused to find Dean's "name" on the chart. "Mr. Samuels, I need you to take some time to prepare yourself."

"Just get in there and fix her," Dean growled through clenched teeth.

"We're doing everything we can, Mr. Samuels." He turned to walk back in, but paused in mid-step. "The Corvallis police are here. They'd like to get a statement from you about what happened to your wife."

"I didn't see anything…" Dean frowned sourly.

"The police will want to do an investigation. It's standard procedure. Just tell them what you know."

The doctor turned on his heel and walked back up the hallway. He turned a corner and pushed open a door with his elbow. The door swung shut again. After a minute, two Corvallis police officers popped into the emergency room through the swinging entrance doors. The color drained from Dean's face. What sort of story could he make up that didn't sound ludicrous? Where had he found her? What had "they" taken? Did she have enemies?

"Humans ask too many questions," Castiel frowned, filling the vacuous space beside Dean. "And not enough."

"What?" Dean blinked, looking at him.

"I will speak to the police."

"What do you plan to tell them?"

"The truth," Cas replied bluntly.

"You can't tell them the truth, Cas! It'll completely confuse them. They'll think we're both nuts."

"Finish Buffy's paperwork," Cas nodded, pointing to the chair and clipboard Dean had left abandoned. "I will deal with this."

Sam watched Dean fold himself back into one of the blue plastic waiting room chairs. He kept glancing nervously at the police, their serious faces locked on the bright blue eyes of the angel. Sam could feel his muscles flexing and fidgeting. He'd only been sitting still for an hour, maybe a little more, but it felt like days. His throat was scratchy and dry, and his nostrils burned. He got to his feet, looming over his brother.

"I need some coffee," Sam said, though neither Castiel nor Dean paid him any attention. Sam looked from one man to the other and took off down the hallway without another word. The linoleum clacked beneath his heels. His skin sparked as he made his way toward the cafeteria.

At last, the police officers put their hats back on their heads and their notebooks back in their pockets. They nodded respectfully to Castiel and then to Dean. With sympathetic looks on their coldly etched faces, they left the hospital. Dean had finished the paperwork and turned it in to the nurse. He and Castiel sat beside one another in the waiting room, their backs pressed against the cold ivory wall.

"What did you tell them?"

"It doesn't matter. They will not ask you for your version of the story a second time. They cannot understand what actually happened. It is beyond their realm of understanding. I simply told them what they wished to hear, the truth they had already imagined."

"So you lied," Dean shrugged.

"No. I told them what they believed they already knew. It was their version of the truth."

"Right. Fine."

Dean looked down at his hands, stained with Buffy's blood. His fingers trembled anxiously. How was she doing? Would the surgery be successful? Had Cas told him the truth he already knew in his heart? Was that the actual truth or just a story to keep him from panicking?

"Why was Buffy brought back?"

"I don't know," Castiel replied smoothly, accepting the question without surprise. Of course they'd talked about their past. They were intertwined souls, locked together in a strange cycle of life and death. They were such oddly similar people.

"She said she met you in Heaven."

"Yes. I was assigned to be her guardian in Heaven. I fabricated her version of Paradise. I became a part of her illusion."

"You fell for her. Hard."

"I do not understand what you mean."

"You were in love with her, Cas. And you're still in love with her. Funny. I didn't know you angels cared about anything. I didn't know you could."

"We feel compassion. We feel anger. Jealousy. Pain. Love is just another emotion. I had never felt it before I met the Slayer."

"So you didn't send her back."

"It was part of my father's plan, but no, I did not do it. I wanted her to stay."

"And when she went back, she said her life was never the same. Boy, don't I know it…"

"Perhaps she should be telling you this, Dean."

"She might be dying for all we know, Cas. Just tell me. Tell me what happened."

Castiel got to his feet. He stood solemn and silent for a few minutes. Dean didn't think he'd talk. Cas kept everything close to the chest. Was it any wonder Dean hadn't noticed he was capable of emotion? Sometimes, Castiel was about as human as a burrito.

"When she was brought back, she believed she'd been sent back with parts of her soul missing. She had trouble connecting to her friends and family, to her position as the Slayer. She relied heavily on her mentor to do the menial tasks of life while she attached herself to death. When I met her for the second time, before the demon came, she had forgotten me. She had wiped her memories clean, swept Heaven out of her mind. She was able to make the decisions that had to be made because she was disconnected from the people around her."

"Sounds familiar," Dean sighed.

"I was sent to Sunnydale to assist in the defeat of the demon Aeshma. My duties had changed. I'd been promoted to a new position. My orders were to send the potential slayers into battle. I was to make sure that those women died. They were to be sacrificed on the mouth of Hell, and their blood would close the entrance. Buffy knew they wouldn't make it. She knew they would die. She had simply accepted the loss. Or at least, I thought she had."

The scent was intoxicating, like roasting meat over an open flame. Saliva collected in the corners of his mouth, and he licked at it before it could escape down the sides of his chin. His fingers twitched compulsively as Sam etched out a wandering path down a series of hallways. He'd made it all the way up to the fourth floor from the lowly and empty cafeteria. The instant coffee had tasted like shit on his tongue. He'd spit it back into the cup with disgust. The smell, though, seemed to slip and slide through the walls, the air vents, and the floors. He could track the demon by scent first. Taste would come later. Hopefully sooner.

Sam pushed open a cracked white door and slithered inside Pediatrics Room 417. A young woman, maybe fifteen or sixteen, lay still in her bed. She'd been comatose for nearly two years after a motorcycle had smashed into the passenger side of her mother's mini-van. Her parents came to visit her every other Sunday, but the presents and flowers had stopped rolling in about a month into her bed sore sentence. Today, she would have two visitors.

The first had already arrived. He'd had enough of his current vessel-a hapless drunk with stained pits in every single one of his shirts. Bruce Cobb was his name, and he had about as much to offer his demon host as a warm PBR and a box of raw peanuts. He's already started to go green around the gills, completely unsuitable for long-term habitation. Black smoke seeped out of Cobb's ears and nostrils, floating into the shell of Amanda Dune.

The putrid smell of Bruce Cobb's unwashed, decaying body was too much for Sam. He waited silently in the doorway, waited for the demon to possess a newer host, a fresher host. The alluring scent was enough to overpower any of his remaining free will. Amanda had been in a vegetative state for two years. If she died making Sam stronger, able to defeat Lilith, then at least she could die for a cause. At least her short life would have meaning. Besides, she smelled so much better than ol' Brucey. Vomit tickled the back of Sam's throat but he pushed it back down. This was no time to allow his tiny conscience to get the better of him. Her blood wasn't really her blood. It was demonic, pure and simple. The ingestion served a purpose. The aftertaste wasn't important. If battery acid would have helped him defeat Lilith, he would have ingested it. He was strong. Stronger than Dean. Stronger than the Slayer. He'd just gotten lucky. Lucky for him, demon blood tasted like the finest filet mignon.

"I should have questioned my orders," Castiel admitted. He turned to look at Dean, and his face was the saddest Dean had ever seen it. His brown eyebrows fell defeated over his cloudy blue eyes. His mouth turned down. His shoulders slumped forward as if crushed.

"Angels are meant to follow orders, Dean. It is humans that have free will. It was my father's gift to the human race, that they should be able to make their own moral decisions. Angels must do as they are told."

"Except the Devil, right?"

"Lucifer is my brother. He fell because he questioned our father's divine plan. He dropped out of God's favor and descended into Hell. He started his own family."

"So what happens if you have doubts? If you start asking questions?"

"I will fall."

"Harsh."

"I blame myself for her guilt. Every day, she regrets what she did to those girls at the mouth of Hell. She questions. She wonders. She doubts."

"So do you, Cas," Dean observed.

"Yes," the angel agreed quietly. "Yes I do."

They might have continued the discussion if the hall hadn't erupted with the sound of walking. Dean jumped back onto his feet, putting aside his conversation with the angel. He could think about Castiel's issues after he found out the Slayer was on the mend. He could think about what it all meant later. Dean waited impatiently, his hands opening and closing, his teeth on edge.

"She's in intensive care," the doctor said, looking at his chart. "We have removed the spleen. It was too badly damaged to repair on its own. However, we have stitched the injured kidney and it should function properly on its own. We will know as she recovers. She hasn't awakened from the anesthetic yet, but…"

"I want to see her."

"Yes. I thought you might. Follow me please."

Dean and Cas stepped in line behind the doctor, following him down the hallway and past double doors into the bank of intensive care units. Dean looked through their glass walls at the patients enclosed within. Most of the rooms were empty. The few patients interred in the ICU had recovered without Death riding their heels. Those that hadn't recovered had been moved to long-term housing. In Buffy's room, the lights were dimmed but not out completely. Blinking LED lights flashed on monitors around her bed. The doctor pushed the door open and allowed Dean and Castiel inside.

"I'll be back shortly. She needs her rest."

"I'm not leaving her again," Dean said shortly.

"Our visiting hours end soon, Mr. Samuels," the doctor frowned.

"I'm not visiting. I'm staying."

"We are both staying," Castiel pressed, his voice firm and insistent. The doctor raised his hands as if acquiescing. He shut the door quietly and walked down the hallway without looking back.

Dean yanked a chair across the room and set it next to the bed. He hovered over the seat, looking down at the sleeping woman on the white gurney sheets. Her skin was ghostly pale, as if she'd never awakened from the astral nightmare. Her hair fell around her face and before he realized what he was doing, Dean was sweeping the majority of it away from her eyelashes and cheeks, brushing it behind her ears. Her cheek was hot under his fingers and he traced the shape of her cheekbone with the flat of his thumb. She looked so fragile under the blinking lights, the hazy semi-darkness of the room. His hand drifted to her hand, lying prone at her side. He carefully pulled her palm across his and finally sat down in the chair.

"I'm sorry," he whispered hoarsely, sheepishly. "I shouldn't have let you out of my sight. We were vulnerable. I should have kept you safe."

Blood leaked into the bed sheets and dripped across the floor. Sam tore away from the corpse, the thing that finally died in his hands. The erratic beating of the heart faded to a dull thud and then…nothing. The flow of the blood petered out from a rushing flood to a trickling creek. The body drooped pathetically, flaccidly. He'd drained the demon dry. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Sam heaved the girl up off the bed and over his shoulder. Her head smacked limply against his shoulder.

"I'll kill her," he whispered to himself, searching the room for a place to stash the remains. "I'll kill Lilith and this will all be worth it."

"You know, we've been working together for a few months now, and this is the first time I've seen her sleep," Dean murmured aloud.

"It's the nightmares," Cas replied from the back of the room. "She can't sleep. They are one of the few things that frighten her."

"I know," Dean nodded, agreeing. "She told me about them, about the potential slayers, the army."

"The girls in her dreams aren't really 'girls' or even the spirits of the dead. They're demonic figures, figments of her imagination that she has empowered. Her guilt gave them life, and only see can defeat them. She needs forgiveness, redemption."

"Is that why she's here? Not here, in the hospital, but here, with me," Dean turned her hand over in his and admired the scarred flesh of her palm. She seemed so small and helpless, lying here. She didn't look like the Slayer.

"Yes," Cas replied after a moment. "But I do not think it is the fight that will redeem her."

"What do you mean?"

The room answered in silence, causing Dean to turn around and look for the angel's answer. He could usually find it written plainly on his expressive face, but this time, the emptiness of the room glared back at him. Shrugging, he turned back to Buffy. Again, his fingers stretched out to soothe her face, to trace the scars and subtle lines. She had one scar over her eyebrow, usually hidden behind a few streams of blond hair. Vaguely, he wondered how many scars he couldn't see.

The LEDs reflected in her bloodshot eyes when Buffy woke at a little past three in the morning. She moaned softly in pain and tried to adjust to the semi-darkness of the room. Her fingers flexed up into the waiting hand of a sleeping hunter. His palm was dry and papery, but oddly comforting when contoured around hers. Dean snoozed quietly in a chair to her left, but it was the presence on her right that had brought her back to consciousness. She turned her head stiffly and slowly to see Cas bending down. His lips touched her forehead briefly, tenderly. She lifted a hand to him and he pulled it into his cold arms like a soft towel.

"Cas," she croaked in a whisper, lifting her eyes to meet his. Even in the darkness, he was silvery and obvious, an angel unable to hide in the shadows. "It wasn't your fault."

"Buffy," Cas replied, almost whimpering.

"It wasn't your fault," she repeated. "I let it happen. I made it happen."

It was all the energy she had. She shut off like a burned out bulb. Her eyes dropped shut like closing doors and her lips hung open, as if frozen in mid-thought.

"Has she said anything?" Dean groaned, awakening to a stiff neck and a sore back. The chair had form-fitted to his body, replacing comfort with hardship. Castiel stood still on the other side of the Slayer's bed, his face faraway.

"No," Cas replied, shaking his head. "Nothing."

"How did you…" Dean started and then stopped. He looked down at her still and silent face, the way her lips parted with each shallow breath. "How did you know that you loved her?"

"Angels are not meant to fall in love," Cas replied without pause. "As I've said, we feel. We have emotional states. We do not feel them the way you feel them. We do not express them the way you express them. But… It was at her prom, an important dance in her version of Heaven. She wanted to experience that moment for eternity. It wasn't something she enjoyed about her real life. She wanted to experience it differently. I took her to the dance. I created that moment for her, from her memories and her dreams, and when she finally saw it…"

The angel's face dropped to gaze upon the young woman upon the bed. She had changed so much since he'd met her in that perfect place, the place she'd always dreamed about. Would her Heaven be the same now? Would she want the same things?

"I wished for her to be happy. I prayed that she would be happy. I begged my Father to allow her happiness. It was then that I knew."

For weeks, Dean had been feeling the same way. He couldn't take care of Sam anymore. They hadn't spoken, really talked, since he'd come back from the Pit. What was there to say? Sam had his own agenda, his own plan. Dean couldn't relate anymore. The fight was out of him. The good days were behind them. And then he'd come to realize that Buffy Summers had become the new Sam in his life. She wasn't really a replacement. She could take care of herself in a fight. She was strong and tough and ruthless but not reckless. She put everyone else in front of herself. She needed someone to look out for her, to make sure she was looked after.

Dean ached for her peace. He watched her struggle to avoid sleep, and he pulled her against him to make sure she was at least comfortable. He stayed up with her. He checked in on her. The way Castiel had talked about her redemption scared him and yet…the fact that she could achieve it all made him want to fight for it. Now, as she slept, he wanted to be inside her dreams, chasing her demons away.

She didn't wake until the middle of that second evening. The nurse knocked on the door and stood in the frame as Buffy's eyes flickered open. She smiled pleasantly, a sweet older smile with wrinkles around the eyes and lips. The Slayer's eyes shot open and caught the woman in her gaze. The nurse stopped, impaled by the stare.

"I don't want it," she growled through clenched teeth.

"Don't worry honey," the nurse replied softly. "It's only morphine. It'll make you feel much better."

"I said I don't want it," Buffy grunted.

"Buffy," Dean interrupted, looking from the Slayer to the nurse.

"Get it out of here!" Buffy squeaked.

"I'll just…come back later." The nurse frowned, scurrying out of the room and shutting the door.

"Buffy, are you okay?" Dean asked, tugging carefully at her hand. The room was empty now, but for the two of them. He moved closer to her and his face was sharp with concern.

"I need to feel it," Buffy groaned, already missing the medication. "I don't want it to go away."

"Yeah," Dean sighed. "Okay."

"I released her," the Slayer started, pushing her elbows back on the bed so she could sit up somewhat straight.

"Who?"

"Lilith," Buffy nodded. "I released her."

"What are you talking about?" Dean leaned forward in his chair. He looked down at his hand and realized he was still holding her.

"It's my fault. All of this. Lilith bought your soul because of me. Those girls died because of me. The world is ending because I started it. I did it. I brought Lilith up out of the Pit. I did it."

"How? When?"

"My army. I let them die on the mouth of Hell. I spilled their innocent blood on the mouth of Hell and it brought Lilith here. It was our sacrifice."

"Buffy, you didn't know," Dean faltered. Images of Hell played out on his eyeballs like reels in an old frame by frame movie.

"It doesn't matter, Dean. I killed them. I sacrificed them and ended the world. I've spent my whole life fighting the apocalypse and it looks like I actually made it happen." She laughed darkly and sat back against the pillows, sucking back gobs of stale hospital air. "And I sent you to Hell!"

"No," Dean shook his head. "I sold my soul, Buffy. That's on my head. I did it. If Lilith hadn't bought it, someone else would have."

"But she bought it," Buffy whispered, the heinous cackling ruining the last of the strength in her voice.

"It doesn't matter." Dean got to his feet and bent over to stroke her face. Her cheek was wet with tears from laughing so hard, and her eyes looked haunted and stressed. "I forgive you."

Her lips were dry and chapped, not romantic or inviting or even very gracious. Still, he kissed her.


	8. The Beast You Made of Me

**Chapter 8: The Beast You Made of Me**

Dean slung an arm around Buffy's waist and helped her wobble down the hospital hallway from the cafeteria to her room on the third floor. She urged her feet to move faster but she still hobbled like an old woman crossed with a flat-footed duck. It had been three days since she'd lost her spleen and taken staples and stitches in her kidney. The doctors had been keeping close tabs on her during the day shift, practically strapping her to the bed, but at night, Dean helped her get back on her feet again. Another day of practice, she assured herself, and she'd be wielding battle axes and stabbing demons with a big fat knife.

Dean stopped in the middle of the hall, pulling Buffy tighter against his waist. She looked up, surprised, from her feet. The morphine had made everything fuzzy, including normal things like putting one foot in front of the other. If she stopped too long, she felt nauseous, like the moving world had suddenly come to a halt.

"Cas," Dean grimaced. Castiel stood in front of them, his face as sour as a lemon. His eyes seemed to smolder and his skin turned sallow.

"Something or someone is murdering angels," Cas growled like a defensive dog. "We've captured a demon that we think knows something, but he won't give up the information we want."

"Uh huh…" Dean frowned, confused as to what Cas was proposing.

"We need you to interrogate him, Dean."

"Me?" Dean blinked.

"Yes," Cas nodded briefly. "We know you can do it."

"You're angels," Buffy hissed. "Why can't you just…I don't know…pour holy water down his throat until he talks?"

"Buffy," Dean stopped her. His face had become cloudy and his eyes darkened. He seemed to reflect Castiel's insistence.

"What? Damn it Dean, we have a job to do! Seals! End of the World! Lilith! Remember?"

"This is part of that, Buffy," Dean sighed. "It's just…part of it."

"We need to go now." Castiel stepped up to him, and before Dean could protest, or even help Buffy back to her room, they disappeared. Buffy shrank to the floor but managed to catch herself before she went splat on the linoleum. Clawing her way back up the wall, she looked around the hallway. A sensation crept up her back, like fingernails scraping up a chalkboard. Spidey sense, she thought. Something was wrong about all this. Something was definitely wrong.

"Wait, so where'd he go?" Sam demanded after Buffy filled him in. She stood against the edge of her bed, leaning heavily on the bed rail. She'd managed to pack her bag without any assistance from Sam. He stormed in, oblivious, an hour after Dean left with an angel in tow. In his hand, he clutched a few pieces of printed paper, probably a new case.

"With Cas," Buffy sighed. She pushed back any feelings of exhaustion or pain. Without considering Sam's thoughts on the matter, she'd decided to check herself out of the hospital, take Dean's car, and drive until the damned creepy feeling on the back of her neck led her to Castiel's hideout.

"Got any more details than that? Come on, Buffy! He could be in trouble!" Sam threw up his hands, irritated. Frustration came off of him in almost visible waves.

"I'm aware of that," Buffy grunted through clenched teeth. "I plan to go and find him. Are you coming or not?"

Without a second thought, Buffy heaved her pack onto her shoulder and took off down the hall. She suppressed the wobble in her gait despite the fact that her overnight bag felt like a sack of rocks.

"Mrs. Samuels?" A nurse called down the hall, her voice echoing past Buffy's ears. The Slayer didn't turn. Sam's footsteps were husky behind her. Don't stop, she urged herself. Don't falter. The pain will fade. Dean needs my help.

"Mrs. Samuels, please! You need to let your body recover! Mrs. Samuels! Come back!"

"Sorry," Buffy yelled back in a damp and low voice. Saliva collected on her tongue. Splinters of pain shot through her upper chest, around the snag of stitches. "Got a world to save."

At the car, Sam insisted on driving. His fingers twitched and his right eye blinked almost constantly. Every few seconds, he'd shut and open the eyelid, as though a particle of fine dust was caught on the center of his pupil. Never once did he rub at the annoyance. He just stared over the dashboard, fussing. Buffy claimed the passenger seat reluctantly. Her nape tingled in that old familiar _We're all about to die _way it had. She pulled her seatbelt across her chest and pointed off into oblivion. It was the signal to go, but Sam just sat there, staring.

"Sam," Buffy said urgently. "Go."

"What?" Sam asked, blinking constantly. "Oh right, yes."

The Impala jumped forward as soon as he started the engine. Even the pistons under the hood were ready to find Dean and drag him back to his senses, to the mission. Sam applied a conservative foot to the gas and they eased out toward the highway.

"If you don't drive with some fire under your ass, Winchester, I'm throwing you out the window and taking off without you." Buffy flicked her head to look at her driving companion. She could feel the urgency of her task under her skin, in her blood. Something, somewhere, was very wrong. Dean was in danger. The last morsels of surgery pain drifted into the back of her head like a latent migraine. The desire to ring Sam's neck consumed her like a wildfire.

"Do you even know where to look?" Sam asked cautiously.

"I'll know when we get there."

Dean stood outside a heavy iron door, his fingers clinging to the handle. Castiel hovered near him, his brows still depressed over his gloomy blue eyes. Between them, the rules of the game were unspoken. Dean knew what to do, and further, he knew why he'd been plucked from Buffy's side to be here. All this time, he and Cas had talked about redemption. Buffy's guilt followed her in her dreams, dancing around her brain like spastic fairies. They'd finally caught up to her in Corvallis, confronted her, and broken her down. The path to redemption was a rocky one, marred by small battles in one massive war. The seals were just the beginning, just a little piece of a much bigger problem.

"You've been hiding," Cas said, seemingly reading Dean's thoughts. "But now it's time to come out."

"I know," Dean sighed. "I just didn't want it to be this way."

"Neither did I," Cas frowned. "I didn't want it to be this way for either of you."

The massive iron door was unbolted, but the captive inside was secure. Dean noticed trails of rust cascading down the frame, surrounding each hinge screw. He thought about stopping to take a deep breath, as though he was about to dive underwater in that pivotal scene in _The Poseidon Adventure_, but the breath wouldn't come. Choking on a short, shallow breath that popped up into his nostrils unexpectedly, Dean yanked open the door and stepped inside.

"So, we meet again," Alastair laughed. "And so soon!"

"I was right," Dean said, trying to smirk and failing. "I told you that you'd pay."

"Am I paying? For what? Killing Death? It came back. You can't kill Death, Dean. You can only postpone it for a little while. I'm sure you've learned that by now."

"For everything you've done," Dean hissed. Something in his chest tightened. Was it Alastair that had done it? He wasn't sure. What had Buffy said? She didn't know what it would do, but she knew what she did was wrong. She did it anyway. She did it to save them, but she did it. She caved to the pressure.

"You don't sound convinced." Alastair practically giggled.

"It doesn't matter," Dean grunted. "You've sinned. We both know what happens next."

"Yes," the demon nodded thoughtfully. "I guess we do."

Mounted in the back of the room was a large cross. Alastair had been chained to the thing, oddly reminiscent of another sinner nailed to a cross. They'd probably suffer the same fate too. Dean's heart sank into his gut. Alongside him stood the only other item in the room-a black wooden table. The table was covered with instruments, most of them crude and rudimentary. There were iron pokers, bottles of holy water, knives, and brands. The sight of them made Dean want to vomit right there on the floor. It all looked so familiar, so distinct. These were times he'd been trying to forget without much success for months.

Unlike Buffy's self-induced insomnia, Dean had drowned his memories in alcohol. He awakened, panting and sweating, to a swig of whiskey and a splash of cold water to the face, every night since he'd come back from Hell. He spent his nights somewhere on the brink of drunkenness, still aware but only dimly and at arm's length from everything. The last time he'd wanted anything, really wanted it, had been when he looked at these tools of destruction.

In the Pit, everything wanted. Desires were on high alert, whether what you wanted was escape or forgiveness or sex or drugs or torture or pain or relief. You wanted it all, all the time. But in Hell, what you wanted never turned out the way you expected. The Pit was one big trap of desires. You wanted rain and you got a flood so disastrous that it killed everything and everyone you ever gave a shit about. You wanted drugs and you got the world's most vivid and distressing trip-Willy Wonka's Vision Tunnel meets Alice's trip down the rabbit hole meets _An American Werewolf in London_'s deteriorating zombie ghosts. Of course, then you wanted to tear out your own eyes and they were gouged out with hot pokers and wooden sticks. That was Hell. When Dean got out, he didn't want to want anything, ever again.

"Why are you killing angels?" Dean asked quietly, picking up an iron bar from the table.

"Come on, Dean," Alastair giggled. "Is that really what you want to know?"

"No," Dean shook his head sadly. "I don't give a damn."

The iron poker thrust through the demon's skin. It wasn't an easy stabbing, not the way one expects. Dean put effort behind the bar, twisting it into the shoulder of his victim. Alastair rolled back his head and screamed horribly. His bare skin swelled around the impact of the weapon, creating a spidery web of black and red lines radiating out from the hole. Dean drew it back again and dark red blood spilled from the wound before it cracked and spat and healed gruesomely.

"You do," Alastair hissed. "You want to hurt me. You wanted to hurt all of them. You wanted revenge."

"You manipulated me," Dean retorted. But he didn't believe the statement. Perhaps they had manipulated him at first, but it didn't take long for Dean to enjoy his new role in Hell as a torturer rather than a victim. He had wanted revenge. He'd wanted it so badly that it came true.

"Did I? Did I twist your arm, Dean? Did I tell you that you had to work for me? You could have stayed where you were. You could have wanted pain, punishment, penance. You didn't want those things, Dean. Lucifer only wants to please you."

"Enough," Dean spat angrily. He picked up a bottle of Holy water and popped the cork, throwing it over his shoulder and onto the floor. He took a step, two steps forward, and took the demon by the chin. Forcing back his chin, Dean pulled open his mouth and spilled the water over the demon's tongue. The body squirmed against its restraints. It screamed inhuman screams and writhed in agony. Dean stepped back, throwing the bottle so viciously against the wall that it shattered into thousands of tiny pieces. Alastair grimaced and laughed, blood spilling from his lips and nose, shooting his eyes with pink veins.

"You used to be so much better at this, Dean. What's wrong? Are you scared?"

They drove for four hours; Buffy leaning both hands on the dashboard and almost pressing her nose to the windshield. The sound of the radio drummed on her ribs, but she refused to turn it down. Her sense of urgency increased with every minute so by the time they crossed into northern California and pulled into a gas station in Yreka, she was ready to kill something. Sam got out of the car to pump the gas. He seemed oddly timid, even quiet, during the first leg of the trip. Buffy had simply directed him south, and he'd gone without protest. She'd urged him to drive faster, and he did. She sent him careening down the highway's shoulder, around speeding 18 wheelers and tiny puttering mini-vans, and he'd agreed easily. Sam Winchester was in a fog all his own, and it was only the incessant beeping of the Impala's gas gauge that finally brought him back to his senses.

There was another thing she'd noticed too. Throughout the drive, Sam had become increasingly weird. He'd started out with a twitch. The twitch became an obsessive hand movement, a tapping that got so irritating Buffy had to avert her eyes. He started mouth-breathing, as though his nose had been stuffed with thick gauze. His skin took on a weird yellow quality that washed him out and made him look diseased. By the time California had come into view, Sam Winchester looked shrunken and death-like, twitching constantly and wiggling in his seat.

Beyond the driver's side window, Sam stood filling the gas tank. He kept sticking his hand in his pocket, pausing, and then taking it out. Buffy watched him feel the thing in his pocket, whatever it was, six or seven times in the minute it took to fill up the gas. After he replaced the nozzle, he closed the tank and took off toward the small _Stop and Go_ convenience store behind the pumps. _Maybe he's just going to the bathroom_, Buffy thought as she watched him take off. She looked out the rearview mirror as the last rays of sunlight lit up the evening sky with streaks of purple, pink, and orange. Her side hurt. She found herself thinking about Dean. Beside her bed, just a few nights ago, he'd told her he forgave her. The words had done something to her, touched her in a way she hadn't been touched for what seemed like years. They weren't enough, not enough to push back the dreams, to give her peace, but…they were a start. Carefully, Buffy pulled her knees up to her chest and tucked her arms around her shins.

Sam opened the car door and slid back behind the steering wheel. At the unexpected movement, Buffy looked up. She'd been so lost in her own thoughts (a mixture of things she couldn't exactly describe now that the moment was over), she hadn't noticed Sam's return. Buffy looked down at the clock on her cellular phone. Over a half-hour had passed since Sam had disappeared into the convenience store. In the time they'd lost, Sam had gained back whatever composure he'd lost during the trip south. His composure was restored and he'd stopped twitching and squirming. His skin color resumed its natural tone. His face was set with determination to find his missing brother. He turned to Buffy.

"So, I have Dean's cell phone programmed into my phone. According to the GPS monitor, he's somewhere around Red Bluff. We're almost there."

"So we're going the right way then?" Buffy asked, surprised to hear Sam's interest renewed.

"Yeah," Sam nodded.

"Good." Buffy replied. She stared at Sam, baffled, as he put the car in gear and took off down the road. He was a changed man. Whatever they were putting in the coffee at the _Stop and Go_, it should have been bottled as a miracle drug. The only thing was… it smelled strangely like blood.

"Tell me why you're killing angels," Dean demanded gruffly. He twisted the knuckles of one hand into the palm of the other. His fist rammed roughly into the demon's cheek, splintering the bone and breaking the flesh. Alastair hung limply on his cross, accepting the hit as a matter of course.

"Now Dean, we both know I'm innocent of that particular crime."

Dean paused and stood back, his hands dropping at his sides. It was true. He did know it. He'd known it since he walked in the room. This moment in time had nothing to do with angels, not really. It was about Hell, and it was about Redemption.

"Oh Dean," Alastair smiled, standing up as straight as he could. "You poor, stupid boy. Those angels have taken you down the wrong path. You should have stayed with me. We could have been partners. I could have shown you the ropes. Don't you miss feeling? Don't you wish you could feel…something? Anything?"

"No," Dean mouthed, though his heart beat out a yes. He split his hand open on the demon's nose, crushing the bone and forcing it through the skin. Dean pulled back his hand with a whimper. Above his head, a pipe began to drip condensation on the floor around him, across the lines of white chalk around Alastair's confinement.

"Liar liar," the demon heckled, his eyes ablaze though his mouth and nose dripped blood. "Pants on fire."

"Sam! There!" Buffy pointed out across the highway to an old warehouse on the edge of Red Bluff. Thick vines had died on the rusty outside walls of the building. The parking lot was cracked with brittle asphalt. Above their heads, the moon showered them with a hazy ghost light. Sam spun the wheel and crossed three lanes of empty roadway to pull across the median and enter the empty lot. Blood pulsed through the back of Buffy's head, and her neck felt like pins and needles pecking out patterns. The Impala pulled to a screeching halt at the old entrance to the building, now covered in thick brush and brambles. Nothing would stop the Slayer, not even thorns and poison oak. Sam scrambled out of the car after her, the putrid but alluring scent of demons tickling his nose. Buffy thrashed through the brush, the thorns clinging to her flesh and clothing like angry fingers.

"Do you think they care about you, Dean?" Alastair asked. He slipped one arm out of his iron shackles, as if he'd oiled them down for quick release. Dean stood on the other side of the Devil's Trap sketched out in chalk between them. He picked up one of the iron pokers and held it aloft like a sword. "Do you think those angels give two shits about you and your mission, Dean? You broke the first seal! You started all this."

"What are you talking about?" Dean asked, dropping the iron wand slightly.

"A righteous man will become a minion of Hell, and he shall bring about the End of Days."

"Lying dicks with wings," Dean groaned, still waiting for the demon to approach. Alastair stood on the edge of the trap and hissed like a caged rat.

"That's all they are," the demon chuckled. "And yet here you are, taking their side." He stepped over the line, blurred by dripping water, and wound back his fist.

"I don't know why, Dean. They're certainly not taking yours."

Fists seemed to come from every side and angle, making Dean feel like the little plastic food ball in a game of _Hungry, Hungry Hippo_. He fended off the first few hits with his iron weapon, but when it clattered out of his hand, he couldn't find it again. His feet lifted from the ground and he was thrown into the steel wall, where he slid down like a wet ice cube and rolled onto his side. His face ached like one giant bruise, and he was having trouble breathing. Kicks rained down against his ribcage, throwing him around on the floor.

"You want to feel something, Dean?" Alastair cackled maniacally.

"Why don't you pick on someone your own size?" Buffy growled, throwing open the heavy iron door with one hand. She stood in the frame, trying to muster up the strength she knew she had hidden inside her.

"Why do people always say that? Dean is closer to my size than you are, little girl." Alastair chuckled.

"Oh come on," the Slayer smirked. "Try me."

"Well, alright," he agreed, "but only because you asked so nicely."

Alastair drew back his fist and threw it toward the Slayer. She held out her hand and caught his knuckles, feeling the weight of his body ripple through her muscled flesh. Using his arm as balance, she turned in a tight circle and threw a kick back into his bloody mouth, releasing his hand just in time to send him sailing past Dean and into the barred wall behind him. Alastair folded against the wall and staggered back to his feet. Buffy dropped to one knee on the floor and touched Dean's broken face.

"Dean," she murmured, pulling him against her lap.

"Buffy?" Dean croaked in confused reply.

Over their heads, Alastair staggered back toward them. His inhuman face cast shadows on the facial features of his meat suit. Raging and insulted, he stood over the pair of hunters, ready to reach down and kill them both. Sam stepped over the threshold of the interrogation room and lifted his hand. His fingers seemed to shake, and his musculature vibrated intensely. Wordlessly, he lifted Alastair from the floor with only the power of his brain. His face screwed up with the pressure and his eyes darkened to slits of black. He looked as demonic as his adversary, bent and twisted and ghoulish. Alastair began to scream, tufts of his black cloud soul spilling from his mouth and nose, barreling around the room as it looked for an exit. Sam pulled his hand back, leaving only drops of the demon in its human suit. Alastair peeked out of its eyes, haunted and afraid.

The scent of demon blood filled Sam's nose, making his salivate. He dropped anxiously to his knees and tore at the flesh with his mouth, his fingernails. He scraped open blood vessels and sank his tongue into the crevices of open wounds. It was growing cold, but it was still so good. Across the room, Castiel walked through the open iron portal. His shoulders hung limply around his body as though he'd been relieved of a heavy load. His eyes fell disjointedly upon the remains of Alastair, a feast for Sam Winchester. The smell of rot seemed to overpower the room, but Sam hardly noticed. The meal was too good to pass up.


	9. The Grip of a Hurricane

**Chapter 9: The Grip of a Hurricane**

"You can't do it!" Sam screamed. Buffy watched him stagger to his feet and turn to face her. His eyes bulged hideously and his hands rose up in white fists. "I have to do it! You can't kill her! You're weak! Broken! What good are you? What kind of hunter are you?"

"The last time I had a friend addicted to killing, I sent her off to witch camp in England," Buffy frowned, looking through the small iron bars welded into the door of Bobby's basement bomb shelter. "You think they take demon blood junkies?"

"Doubt it," Bobby frowned behind her. He rubbed the back of his head with one hand and replaced his dingy trucker's cap.

"When was all this happening? Where were we?"

"Trying to save the world, I guess."

"Yeah," Buffy sighed. "Probably."

Sam Winchester slumped down on the cot in the middle of Bobby's basement shelter. He scratched wildly at his own skin, as if attempting to claw the blood out of his system. His screams were agonizing, barely human. It was Castiel that had finally subdued him with a gentle but firm touch to the forehead. Sam collapsed like a heavy sack on top of his deceased victim. Buffy scooped the broken remains of Dean Winchester into her arms and Castiel shipped them all back to home base. There were no other options for Sam. It was Dean that suggested they let him ride it out in the basement, where nothing could get to him and where he couldn't escape.

The agonizing sound of Sam's wild ranting was subdued only by the thick floors in Bobby's old house. On the first floor, they could still hear him, faintly but distinctly. By the time Buffy reached the second floor landing, the voice was gone. She stood at the top of the stairs and swallowed a deep breath of dusty air. The windows were shut up here, lines of salt crossing their thresholds. Everything smelled old, and nothing felt safe. Their own people had been penetrated by demons, right under their noses. Everything seemed to be falling apart.

Down the hall, Dean lay on an empty bed. Buffy pushed back the door, its' hinges creaking slightly. His face was swollen, mottled with black, red, purple, and yellow splotches of color. Both of his eyes were black and shining. His lower lip and cheek were split and bloody. Propped up on a few pillows, he held a bag of ice against the side of his face. A half-glass of whiskey with melting cubes of ice sat on the night stand beside him. Buffy pulled up a chair from beneath the lip of an old desk. She sat down beside him, her hands folding uncomfortably across her lap.

For several minutes, they sat in silence, simply staring at one another, at the floor, at the ceiling. Dean breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, and each breath was clearly painful. Buffy took the drink from the nightstand and held it up to his lips. She tipped it back and poured a sip of the drink into his mouth. He winced slightly at the taste. The ice cubes clinked against the glass when she set it back down on the table.

"I couldn't get to you in time," Buffy started, looking into his broken face.

"Buffy…"

"I should have known… Sam was acting so weird, but I was distracted."

"Hey," Dean said, putting a hand on hers. He pushed himself up on the pillows behind him and looked at her. Even with his face pocked by bruises, she could see his expression. "Stop. It isn't your fault. None of it is your fault."

"Did you find out about the angels?" She changed the subject smoothly.

"Dicks with wings," Dean grunted.

"Huh?"

"It was just a hoax to get me there. No angels were hurt in the making of this film…"

"So you're a walking bruise because…?"

"Long story."

"There's a junkie in a basement and you have massive head trauma. I think we've got time."

"Yeah, I guess. Just warning you. I have a lot of stuff on my chest and now's the time to say it, right?"

Dean took another sip of the whiskey on the table. He set the glass down heavily and sat up on the bed. Woozy for a second, he paused before swinging his legs over the side of the bed and sitting upright beside the Slayer. He looked pathetically at his hands, as if trying to decide what to do with them. Finally, he set one on either side of his hips and pressed them into the mattress, making stress folds in the skin of his wrists.

"Buffy, I'm in love with you. There. I admitted it. Sounds simple, right? But it isn't. I don't even know how I know. Isn't that crazy? I come back from Hell wanting…well…nothing. I drank myself into a damn coma trying to figure out how not to feel stuff and here I am, falling in love with the damn Slayer. Romantic, right?"

Dean staggered to his feet and crossed the room. He picked up the whiskey, touched the glass to his lips, and after a beat, poured the remains of the glass down his throat. He hissed slightly as the bitter taste washed over his tongue. The room looked a little steadier as he consumed the toxic liquid.

"Hell was…well, it was bad. What else can I say? It's Hell. It's to be expected. When I got back, everyone wanted to know what it was like. Sam pestered me with questions night and day. If I didn't know he'd studied to be a lawyer, I'd swear he was aiming for armchair psychology. _Tell me what it was like, Dean. You'll feel better, Dean. Just let it out. _Man, I just wanted to let out my fist on him. But you know what Hell was like, Buffy?

"Down there, all you do is want. You want everything. You want to live. You want to die. You want purgatory. You want forgiveness. You want to know what it all means. You want to know why you lived your life the way you lived it. You want to know where the Hell God went and why he left you down in the Pit. You want and want and want. And the worst part is they give it to you! They give you everything you want and more. But the way you get it? It isn't ever what you had in mind.

"When I got to Hell, Buffy, I wanted to be punished. I wanted to take whatever was coming to me and I wanted to take whatever was coming to Sam too. Why waste all that time? I was in it for the long haul. Thirty years, they tortured me, Buffy. Thirty years. Every day, I'd wake up and my entrails would be stuffed back up in me like they'd always been there. By the end of the day, they'd be lying all over the floor while I screamed like a maniac. Every day, they'd taunt me and pick at me and try to wear me down. They'd ask me what I wanted and I'd spit in their faces.

"In the Pit, Buffy, you want to stop feeling it and you can't. You go through the same shit every day. You want to die, but you're already dead."

"What makes you so special?"

Sam sat heavily on the bed, making the springs creak and whine. The back of his head buzzed, strained and in agony. The whole cylindrical iron room seemed to spin. The shelves of dusty books blended together in streaks of hazy color and the floor, stained with rust, matched the veins that bulged through Sam's pasty skin.

"What makes you so great? The Chosen Two. You're zombies! You don't even care if they all live or die!"

Out of the wobbling fog of his thoughts, Castiel took up a place at the foot of his cot. His arms hung limp and loose at his sides, and his face was as illegible as bad script. He looked down at Sam Winchester in judgment. He spoke not a word.

"I'm the strongest, Castiel! I know what needs to be done! I have faith! I believe in you, in your word, in your God! Put your trust in me!"

"You, Sam?" Castiel chuckled, his bitter eyes suddenly glowing with laughter. "You? You're a minion of the Yellow-Eyed Demon, tarnished by his blood. You have a taste for it now. You're no good to me."

"It will help me defeat Lilith!"

"Who told you that, Sammy? Some demon?"

"She's not just a demon. She's different."

"Me too, Sammy," Castiel laughed. His body began to mutate. The trench coat shortened and the pants changed shape. The face grew and giggled and expanded and shifted. Before long, Dean Winchester stared down at his brother, his eyes pinched and his mouth grotesque.

"You're a drunk," Sam spat, "and that girl, Buffy, she's an insomniac! Can't even sleep, let alone fight. You're both injured and here I am, wasting away in this cell in tip-top condition! Not even a scratch!"

"Oh Sammy, don't you know how little I care about you? I regret ever selling my soul for your stupid life."

"They shouldn't have sent you to the Pit, Dean! It changed you. I don't even know you! And Dad, they killed Dad and Mom! I don't even remember what she looked like, Dean! They need to pay! They need to die! I'm gonna kill her, Dean. You can't do it. You're not strong enough. I'm going to kill her. She's going to die."

"When I got back, I just wanted it all to stop. I wanted to turn it all off. I wanted to stop…wanting. Buffy, my dad died wanting revenge. Sam's downstairs right now seething with the same disease. I got my revenge in Hell. I got more of it than I ever wanted. I've had enough revenge for a hundred lifetimes. After thirty years of daily torture, daily suffering, daily agony, I'd had enough. Every day, Alastair would come up to me and say _You can make it all end, Dean. You can turn the tables. You can have your revenge. They killed your mother and your father. They took away your life. You could have been a normal, every-day guy. You could have finished high school. You could have married some beautiful girl and had yourself a couple kids. You could be alive right now. Don't you want revenge? _And I did. One day, I was just done. I'd had it. No more punishment. I became the damn executioner.

"I tortured other people the way the demons tortured me. Buffy, I liked it. I wanted to do it. I took pleasure from it. It was wonderful! No conscience. No worries. I broke people down. I made them scream. And then one day I woke up in a pine box, full of memories, a conscience, a realization that I'd done something so horribly wrong that I couldn't even think about it. So I tried to shut it off. I tried to swallow it down."

"You can't get away from it," Buffy sighed thoughtfully. "There's no escape. You're just postponing the inevitable. Instead of getting it in small, constant doses, you get it in one big chunk that rips a hole in you."

"Literally," Dean nodded, agreeing.

"It's funny," Buffy shrugged. "No matter which place you were after death, you always come back to Earth feeling as dead as you were when you were actually dead."

"Remember the head trauma?" Dean blinked, confused.

"I died. I think I told you. It was how I met Cas. I died and went up to Heaven. Retirement for the Slayer at last. And then I got yanked back here by a well-meaning witch. As soon as I woke up in that box, I felt like a conscious zombie. You tried to shut it off, but Dean, I succeeded. I was so cut off that I killed fifty girls without even batting an eyelash. I'm scared to let myself feel. I'm scared to open the flood gates and let it all in."

"You and me both," Dean sighed.

"What happened in that room with the demon, Dean?"

Dean clutched the whiskey glass, but it was empty. He looked down into the melting ice cubes and set it back on the table. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Buffy lifted her eyes and looked at him. Time to face the music, kid, she seemed to say. Time to admit what you've been holding back.

"We're both here for a reason, Buffy. You know yours. You already told me. I'm here because I let them in. I wanted revenge and I took it. I broke the first seal. A righteous man will become a minion of Hell. I let my emotions control me. I started the damn apocalypse."

"It's sorta funny, isn't it?" Buffy tried to laugh, but the sound came out flat and artificial. "You broke a seal being too emotional. I broke the gates of Hell not being emotional enough."

"What do you need revenge for, Sammy?" Dean smirked, walking slowly around the bed until he stood over Sam's face, his eyes boring holes in Sam's pupils. "You never even knew Mom. You hated Dad. Maybe the only thing you want to kill is yourself. Maybe you should. Maybe you should just end it right here. You're a freak, Sammy. You're weak and you're scared. You can't do what it takes to kill Lilith. You can't beat her. I'll have to do it. I always have to cover your ass."

"You're wrong! It's you! You're the weak one, the drunk, the freak. It's you, Dean! It's you!"

"Me? I've been fighting demons all my life, Sam. You gave up. You took your lunchbox and left town. You sent me to Hell, Sam. It's your fault."

"Don't worry, Sam," Buffy grimaced devilishly, appearing on Dean's arm like a savage kewpie doll. She tossed her head to one side, cascading strands of perfect golden hair around her shoulder. Her mouth was as red as blood. "I'll take care of Dean. We'll beat Lilith and run away together. I'm stronger than you. We can do this without you. You can just stay here and get over your little…problems."

"I'm getting out of here! You can't beat her! You can't do it!" Sam screamed so shrilly that his voice cracked under the pressure. Dean and Buffy burst into horrific giggles and disappeared, shrinking into the walls.

The floor whimpered where Dean dropped down on one knee to scoop up the bottle of whiskey laid out under the bed. Buffy's fingers stopped him, caressing the side of his busted cheek with the side of one finger. He lifted his eyes, taking in the frame of her face, the dullness of her pretty green eyes, the grayish color in her skin. Somehow, she was beautiful. Maybe it wasn't the Buffy he saw, but the Buffy he knew was underneath all that pain. He dropped the neck of the bottle and it clunked back into place. A scarred and crusty hand wrapped around her hip, and beneath her shirt, he could feel the firm musculature. She admired the cloudy hazel irises that peeked through his swollen eyelids. Even pulpy and bumpy, Dean Winchester was a good-looking man, a rough man, a tender man. She bent her head and carefully kissed his bloody mouth.

Beneath the floors, Sam rebelled in anguish, but above the bomb shelter, Dean cautiously removed Buffy's shirt, pulling it over her head. She'd pulled off the bandage around her chest where the surgery had taken place. The wound was still garish but getting better. He touched the stitches with one sweeping finger. Her skin was hot, growing hotter. Murmuring anxiously, Buffy drew his attention back to her waiting mouth. She tried to remember the last time she'd had physical contact with anyone. Spike. She'd done it to feel something. She'd been so desperate to feel. The moments were fleeting. When you're dead, nothing but death really lasts.

His lips were chapped and dry but miraculously skilled. He pushed her back carefully on the bed and removed his jacket and shirt. There were bruises on his chest and shoulders. Buffy kissed each one. By now, the burn of Castiel's hand on Dean's shoulder had faded to a mark barely noticeable. Buffy placed her own small hands on either side of his clavicle and pulled him close, nudging his hips between her thighs. They interlocked and fit perfectly together.

Each movement was careful, not marked with the urgency of either lover's last intimate encounter. It wasn't just that they were wounded. Neither party needed to feel the urgency of love-making. With each thrust came a kiss, a touch, an appreciation of another form. Dean's nose brushed Buffy's cheek. Buffy's fingers blended into Dean's hair. They moaned in quiet unison. Their arms and legs pulled in tight.

With one arm flung across her waist, Dean tucked Buffy's smooth body against his chest. He folded his legs around her, and pulled the blanket up to their shoulders. The longest of her scars curved down and around her hip, giving Dean cause to take a second look. He leaned back into the mattress and traced the garish line with the ball of his thumb. She shivered just slightly and looked over her shoulder at him.

"What happened?"

"I got close to Death," Buffy murmured quietly. "But not close enough."

"Have you ever been in love?" He changed the subject smoothly, just as she had done.

"Yes, once,"

"What was it like?" Her hair smelled like war. She was like no woman he'd ever known.

"Hard."

Buffy rolled over onto her back, forcing Dean to adjust his body across the pillows and beneath the blankets. She flipped onto her other side and peeked up at him, at his beaten face, at his bloody lip. Dean's body was a map of recent scars. His hands were still blistered with old wounds. His face was only a reminder of other fights, other battles.

"Why do you do this?" She frowned, thinking about her own life, the life that had never belonged to her. "Why'd you become a hunter?"

"I didn't," Dean shrugged. "It sorta…chose me."

Stormy winds swooped down across the Great Plains, picking up her yellow-gold ponytail and swinging it around her shoulder. Buffy flipped up the collar of Dean's jacket and grasped the lapels tighter around her middle. She thought about going back inside to stare up at the ceiling while lying comfortably in Dean's arms. Her skin tickled where she remembered his unshaven chin, his warm, chapped lips, his sore, purple flesh. In the cloudy black sky, a bolt of dry lightning crackled. Under the sizzling light, Castiel appeared.

The wind picked up around his ankles and brushed his light khaki trench coat against his knees. His face seemed subdued, as if he'd just been swatted with a rolled up newspaper. He looked sorry and sad, but an expression of understanding mingled with his bright irises.

"We've failed," he admitted coldly.

"The seals," Buffy sighed. "We missed some."

"There were complications. You are only human."

"Don't apologize, Cas. You were just following orders." Buffy didn't make the comment snidely. She simply meant what she said. Castiel had only been following orders. He'd been instructed to tell them that they were to protect the seals. It wasn't his job to tell them why they'd been chosen, but he'd done it anyway. It wasn't his job to bring them together, but he'd felt they would work well as a team. All this Buffy knew without following any sort of order. Castiel had been abandoning the ways of Heaven ever since they'd met.

"I wanted you to succeed. I am the only angel on your side."

"And what about the rest of them?"

"They want to fight. They are tired of humans, tired of demons. They want to start fresh."

"Noah's Ark all over again, eh? Too bad I never got that lifeguarding certificate."

"If they have their way, there won't be anyone left to save."

"Total global domination, eh? They're no better than demons."

"I wouldn't go that far. They are still my family."

"Can't pick your family," Buffy sighed. "Anyway, what are we going to do?"

"There is only one thing I can think to do, Slayer."

"So spill it, Cas. I'm all ears."

Castiel turned his eyes to the sky, but when he spoke, he directed his voice at the Slayer. Whether they could hear him was a mystery. Maybe they would try to stop him. Maybe they didn't think the Slayer was up to the challenge. Whatever the possibility, Castiel released the instruction without hesitation.

"Tomorrow, Sam Winchester will attempt the assassination of Lilith. You must kill him."

"No," Buffy said briefly.

"Only one seal remains, Buffy. If we can protect it, we can still prevent Lucifer's ascent. We can still win this."

"I won't do it. I'm done killing, Cas. Look what it's done to me, to the world! I'm not a killer."

"You are the Slayer, Buffy. You have been chosen to save the world. This is how you will save it. If Sam kills Lilith, the gates of Hell open and the world will end. It will happen. You will watch it with your own eyes."

"How do I know this isn't another trick, Cas? The last time you asked me to kill someone, I cracked open Hell and released the scariest demon since Lucifer! One more life ends and suddenly everything is all hunky-dory again? When does the killing stop, Cas?"

"You are the Slayer, Buffy. Death is your gift."

"Don't start with that. I already gave that gift. Someone else gave it back."

"How many times have you died for them, Buffy? How many things have you killed? This is your destiny. You are the Slayer."

"He's Dean's brother, Cas!"

"You have done worse, Buffy. You are the Slayer. What is that old human adage? You always hurt the ones you love. " He looked for a moment at the ground. "I certainly have."

Her side of the bed had cooled, but Dean's arm was still stretched across the pillow, welcoming and warm. Throwing off his jacket, Buffy crawled under his proffered hand and nestled against his rib cage. She stared up at the ceiling for a long time, her thoughts a tangle of wild brambles. Sleep came like it always did, insistent and difficult to ignore. For the first time in a long time, the Slayer relinquished control. Not forced by medication or yanked under in pain, Buffy allowed herself rest. She whimpered and moaned, throwing aside her arms, yanking and kicking at the blankets. In the midst of the night, Dean woke to her thrashing. Without waking her, tearing away her one full-night's rest, the wounded hunter tucked her against his body, pulling her into a kind of safety net. His lips brushed her temple, soothing her back into calm sleep. She eased back down, tucking her arms under her cheek, pulling her legs up against her abdomen. Sleep came back again, welcome and deserved. Dean scooped up the edges of the blanket and wrapped her up.

Below the floors, beneath their sleeping figures, the iron door cracked with a whimper and hung ajar.


	10. The Lamb and the Knife

**Chapter 10: The Lamb and the Knife**

"Get up, ya idjits! Git!" Bobby flailed, throwing the bedroom door wide open until the knob slammed against the opposite wall. Buffy scrambled out of bed, falling onto the floor gracelessly. Immediately, she thanked whatever had suggested to her that pants in bed were a great idea. Grabbing Dean's jacket off the floor, she hauled it around her shoulders and stared incredulously at Bobby.

"Damnit, Bobby, what?" Dean groaned, rubbing his eyes and then hissing under his breath when he remembered all the bruising.

"Sam's gone. Woke up this morning to bring him some breakfast and the damn door was wide open."

"Remind me to put a low jack on that kid one of these days," Dean half-smirked and grabbed his tee shirt off the nightstand.

"Get dressed, both of ya. We gotta find him before something else does."

"Don't worry, Bobby," Dean sighed, digging his hand into the pocket of his jeans. He pulled out his cellular and punched numbers into the keypad. "Modern technology comes to the rescue."

Twenty minutes later, Dean was grabbing his jacket and his car keys. Buffy looked anxiously out the window as the morning sun lingered over the day. There were things she knew that Dean didn't know. The day was already starting to wane and here they were, wasting time talking about it. The cellular finally finished working and pinged Sam's location somewhere near Bozeman, Montana. Dean flipped the phone closed and stuck it in his pocket. He tipped a finger to Bobby and walked out to the car.

"Dean," Buffy frowned, following him. He turned and looked at her, the wan determination on his face fading out as it was replaced with quiet affection.

"We have to do more than find him, Dean. We have to stop him."

"He's probably off to kill Lilith. I mean, I know it isn't the best way to do it, with that weird mojo, but…"

"No, you don't understand. Dean, if he kills Lilith, the world ends. She's the last seal. If her blood is shed, we're all doomed."

"Wait-what? Where'd you hear that?"

"Cas told me," Buffy sighed. _He told me a lot of things. _

"Why the hell didn't you say something?" Dean growled, jumping into the car and slamming the door shut. "Get in the car!"

In Bozeman, sleet streaked across the sky and coated the road with slush. The wintery weather was unseasonal but hardly unusual. At any time of year, the northern plains were dusted with fiery ashes, sleet, snow, and rain. Great winds blew across the mountains and the sun occasionally beat down upon meadows filled with beef cattle. Sam pulled up in front of the only hospital in a hundred miles. He sat in the parking lot, Bobby's truck engine still running, spilling heat into the cab. A tap on the driver's side window startled him. Sam turned and wiped one hand against the glass, clearing away the collecting humidity. Behind the foggy glass, Ruby's dark brown hair was flecked with bits of frozen rain.

"We need to go inside, Sam."

"Are you sure we have to do this?" Sam asked wearily. He turned off the engine and got out of the car. Without considering it, he left his jacket on the empty passenger seat.

"Yes Sam, I'm sure."

"It's different this time, Ruby," Sam frowned.

"No different than the girl in Corvallis, the host in Red Bluff. You want to save the world, don't you Sam? Sometimes we have to make sacrifices. Sometimes, you have to be the one holding the knife."

"Do you think they understand?"

"Yes, Sam. I know they understand. They're in Heaven. That's where we all want to be, eventually."

"I know you'll get there. They'll see what you did. They'll reward you."

"Yes," Ruby agreed. "They will reward me."

The doors opened as if by magic and allowed Ruby and Sam inside. The halls were mostly empty, and the whole place was quiet. Sam watched a young girl in a skiing outfit hobble down a hallway, her skis grasped tightly in one hand. She had a makeshift splint on her leg. He turned down another hall and followed Ruby through the twisting and turning ward. They stopped at last at the nursery, where a young woman stood over a row of infants. She picked up one and held it tenderly against her breast. The baby cried helplessly and kicked his little red hands and feet. She placed it in a plastic basinet and began pushing it out of the nursery.

"You must drink the living blood of the demon, Sam. It will give you strength to defeat Lilith. This is your last challenge, your last test. I know you can do this. It's important, Sam. You're saving the world."

"Sometimes, you have to break a few eggs," Sam murmured carefully. He watched the woman walk down the hall, her small heels clicking on the floor. They followed her together, moving silently in her step.

On the highway, Dean and Buffy raced across eastern Montana, heading northwest. There was no speed limit way up here, at least no limit that was particularly enforced. It was the thing he loved most about coming to visit Bobby. Out here on the plains, the speedometer was your only limitation. Buffy reached across the dash and turned down the radio. Dean blinked, looking at her somewhat defensively. She hadn't told him, at least at first, that Castiel had given her new information. Now she was touching the dials on the carefully adjusted radio console. Love was a funny thing.

"Cas told me something else last night, Dean," Buffy started.

"Where the hell was I when all this was happening?"

"Sleeping," Buffy sighed.

"But you were sleeping. I saw you."

"I stayed up awhile." She paused. "Dean, Cas told me that I have to kill Sam."

The car came to such a sudden screeching halt that Buffy felt like she'd choke on the last meal she'd eaten, despite the fact that it was digested long ago. They came to a stop across two lanes of traffic in the blustering wind. Dean stared at her across the seat, his face a mixture of horror and pain.

"Get out." He reached across her and popped open the door. Buffy unlatched her seat belt and got out of the car. The wind whipped up her hair and threw it across her face and neck, a handful of tiny whips.

"I love you, Buffy," he admitted over the howl. "But Sam's my brother. I can't let you."

"I understand, Dean," she nodded. "If it were Dawn, I'd do the same thing."

The car realigned itself with the road and roared off again, picking up speed as it raced down the highway. Buffy staggered across the lanes and came to stand in the dirt and high grass along the side. She didn't have long to wait. Whether or not Dean took her to the rendezvous was irrelevant. She'd get there. It was only a matter of time. Castiel appeared as if by magic, his face as tormented and dark as ever it had been. He didn't speak. There was nothing of import to be said. Without fanfare, he touched Buffy's forehead, transporting the two of them to a small parking lot at an old church. The outside walls were white-washed but dingy, covered in creeping, crawling vines that had died years ago but never decayed. The bell in the tower was missing. The pavement was cracked and broken. The day had already begun to fade. Buffy looked down at her watch. For whatever reason, hours had passed. The sleet turned to snow and floated easily from Heaven to the dirty ground. Buffy reached behind her and pulled a pistol from the bend in the back of her jeans. She pulled out the clip and admired the bullets, each one shiny and deadly and oddly attractive. Before she'd met the Winchesters, she'd never touched a weapon as automatic and easy as a gun. The lack of weight scared her. She shoved it back into place and pulled her jacket down over it.

"This is where it happens," Buffy said.

"This is where it started," Castiel replied.

"Did you do it or did I?"

"I have done nothing, Slayer. You are in control."

"That's funny," she smirked. "What happened to destiny?"

"You still have to make the choices."

"Yeah," she said as the pick-up rolled through the battered barricade and found a parking slot etched into the ground. "I guess I do."

Sam followed Ruby through a hole in the church wall, like a hidden entrance into the Secret Garden. Buffy followed them, taking her time to cross the expanse of the parking lot. All they had now was time. Behind her, the engine gunning all the way, Dean rambled into the lot and parked behind Sam. At the edge of the lot, the edge of God's influence on this holy place, Castiel looked down at the broken hole in one hidden wall. His thoughts were clear. _This is where it happens; where it started and where it ends._

"I've been waiting for you," the child grinned, her face sweet and serene despite hollow eyes and transparent skin. Two platinum pigtails framed either side of her sweet face. Each of her visible teeth was square and perfect. Her tongue was so pink that it looked bloody and strange. She wore a pretty white dress, satin and scallop-trimmed with bits of eyelet lace sewed to the hem. Her legs were bare, covered with fine white down, but the feet were tipped with lacy white socks and cloven with shiny patent leather Mary Janes.

"Lilith," Sam bristled. He could sense the tiny hairs on the back of his neck rising to sharp points. His hackles were raised and he was ready to fight, to maim, to kill. Ruby came to stand behind him, her face oddly expressionless despite the moment of triumph. Between them stood a void of space, a vacant area that needed to be filled. The seal stood beneath their feet, an insignia upon the stone. Catholic blood had sanctified it. Their screams still echoed through the walls at night.

"Sam, don't!" Buffy spoke up, coming out of the chapel's hall and falling into the room across the seal. She pulled the gun from its hiding place and held it squarely in front of her, the elbow slightly bent, the sight trained on Sam. "You can't kill Lilith! If you spill her blood, it will end the world!"

"Move out of the way, Slayer! You don't know what you're talking about. This is Lilith!"

"That's right, Sam. This is Lilith. She bought your brother's soul and sold it to Hell. She killed your mother, killed your father. She's the Reason."

"Sam, listen to me! Whoever this bitch is, she's lying to you! If you kill Lilith, we're all dead! Everyone! Sam!"

"Don't listen to her, Sam. She released Lilith in the first place. She opened the gates of Hell, killed her own kind. She's a murderer, Sam. She wants you to fail. If you fail, she wins."

Buffy squeezed the trigger, pulling back the hammer as she did so. The gun wobbled slightly in her sweating fingers. _No one needs to die_, she thought, but she didn't really believe it. This had all happened before. Déjà vu, all over again.

"You released her? You've been baiting Dean all this time, trying to work him up against me. This is all her plan, isn't it? And it's working! But as soon as she's dead, it'll all be over."

Sam lifted his hand and squeezed his face into a painful mass of creases and wrinkles. His mouth twisted sourly and his eyes squinted to mere slits. Buffy felt her insides squeeze like popped grapes. She groaned, trying to resist the pain. The Chaplin's ancient stone altar rushed up behind her. Her back bent over the counter and she crashed to the ground, sliding down the front side like a bug smashed on a windshield. Blood and hair stuck to the edge of the altar and dripped, comfortingly warm, down the back of Buffy's neck.

The pistol changed hands. Sam stooped to retrieve it where Buffy's hands had let it fall. He lifted the weapon, his features still twisted with ruthless hate. His words dripped with disgust, and he spat in her direction, the phlegm making a sticky puddle on the floor.

"You're a traitor and a fraud. You think I'm stupid? That I don't know what you did? You killed your own kind, sacrificed them on the gates of Hell, and conjured up the worst, most evil thing you could comprehend. You brought that thing here!"

"Who's doing…the sacrificing now, Sam?" Buffy asked, struggling to her feet. Blood oozed from the back of her skull, soaking her hair, staining her skin, wetting the back of her shirt.

The gun fired. The sound rang through the air, spinning through the church. No one saw Dean scramble through the chapel doors just in time. He sailed across the unbroken seal, his hands out to block the shot. It pierced his stomach and kept going, throwing him to the floor like a rag doll. Behind him, the Slayer dropped to her knees, her hands folding up over the reverberating wound. Covered by Dean, she'd still been trying to regain her footing. Instead, she fell right back down again. Blood squirted from her mouth as she choked on a sputtering breath.

Her hands fell forward on the stone, catching her suddenly heavy body. She'd been stabbed, beaten, knocked out of buildings, drowned, and god only knew what else, but the worst feeling of all had to be bullets. There was something about a tiny piece of flying metal that seemed to hurt more than anything else. More blood spouted from her nose and mouth and spilled onto the floor. Dean's arms slid around her and pulled her close. His own hands were bloody. A dark stain spread through his shirt around his midsection. Buffy's hands pressed into it, applying pressure to stop the bleeding. Fluid gathered between her digits and collected in the crevices of her skin. In his face, she saw the twisting, turning agony of his own gunshot wound. They stared at each other for a long time, time that seemed to exist outside of that little chapel in Montana.

You always hurt the ones you love, Buffy.

Castiel stood with her, his hand covering hers. Sam stooped to pick up the gun, cradling it briefly in his large hand. Dean watched from the sidelines, already prepared to run in after the Slayer, the girl he needed to look after. He already regretted kicking her out of the car. He regretted every step that had led them here. He didn't know what he planned to do until it was done. The gun fired. Dean ran out in front of it, taking a bullet that was meant for more than just her. He fell in a heap on the cool stone floor and behind him, Buffy's voice caught in her larynx and pushed out more blood than sound.

"They wanted you to fail. You shouldn't have been brought back. It wasn't in the cards. You put a wrinkle in the plan. Dean could not have done this without you. They thought that if they broke you, if they killed you without killing you, that you would not be a threat. The plan could go ahead.

"They wanted this apocalypse, as I have said. They wanted to wipe humans off the Earth and demons too. You are all, what is that phrase? Red-headed step-children. They do not like you. They do not want you."

"You want us."

"I have wanted you since the moment I met you, Buffy. It will not come to pass. Still, I want you to be the woman I met in Heaven. I know she is still in you, despite where I have led you. I have been questioning my orders ever since the Sunnydale Massacre. It was not soon enough."

"They wanted to make me a murderer. They succeeded."

"They wanted to start the apocalypse, Buffy. But in this room, in this place, we're going to finish it. You will finally have your peace, your redemption. You will finally be happy."

"With Dean." She watched the light fade in his eyes.

"In Heaven, there are people called soul mates. Not everyone has one and it is rare to ever find yours, even if you are assigned one. I do not know how the process works, but there are certain angels responsible for such things. You and Dean? You are one of these pairs. You were never meant to meet, never meant to fight alongside one another. I knew that the only way to give you real peace was to bring you here."

"And Lilith?"

"I will take care of Lilith."

"This is the last time I want to be here, Cas."

"It will be."

She turned to face him then, to look into the eyes of an angel already falling from grace. He'd given up everything to help them, to save mankind, to make sure they'd be okay. He looked down at her with gentle eyes, eyes she'd once admired in a little fantasy universe constructed around a life that could never be hers. Whatever Heaven had in store for them, it couldn't be like that again. It couldn't be a never-ending prom with Castiel dancing her through the night. She'd find a different sort of peace with Dean, but it would be a lasting one. This time, she'd be safe.

Without hesitation, she kissed him. His lips were warm and soft and perfect, the kind of lips you'd expect an angel to have. He brushed her hair over her ear and left a second kiss upon her forehead.

"Don't be afraid, Slayer. Use your heart in this battle, not your head."

Tears drizzled down her cheeks, smearing her vision. The pain that ripped through her chest was agonizing, but for the first time in a long time, she let herself feel it. Her mouth felt dry and sticky, but the words needed to be said. She lifted a shaking hand, a bloody hand, and cradled Dean's face. He was so close that she barely had to raise her voice.

"Dean," she mumbled, feeling more and more exhausted with every breath.

"Sssh, Buffy, its okay."

"I love you."

"I love you too," he smiled, bending down to kiss her damp mouth, each tooth rimmed red. "Just try to relax. You're going to be okay. Those healing skills of yours…you'll be up in no time at all."

"This time…this time it's easy."

The bloodstain on his shirt was still soaking through. He held her tight and vomited over her shoulder, spilling blood and gastric juices onto the floor. She didn't seem to notice the flexing and bending of his shuddering shoulders. She nuzzled into the damp spot of his tee shirt and folded her arms weakly against his deflated abdomen.

Behind them, Lilith giggled like a happy child with a new toy. The chapel floor was red-washed, and the unbroken seal was throbbing with spilled blood. She could barely stand, so racked was her small body by the maniacal cackling. Hooting and gasping for air to help her little meat suit breathe, she finally found the means to speak.

"Silly, silly, silly Sammy!" She wrapped both arms around her middle and howled with more laughter. It took almost a full minute to regain her composure. "Killed my adversaries but missed me! Missed me, missed me! I'm right here, Sammy! How'd you miss me?"

"Dean?" Sam whimpered, dropping the gun as though it were aflame.

"Silly, silly, silly Sammy!" Lilith repeated the words again like a children's rhyme. "Tried to kill me, killed your brother. Killed your daddy. Killed your mother!"

"Do something, Sam! Kill her!" Ruby coaxed behind him, pushing him to do the job they'd come to do.

"No," Castiel said, popping up in the midst of the room. He looked almost happy, as happy as a sourpuss angel like Castiel could be.

The smile dropped off Lilith's face. She scowled at the angel as though he'd taken away her favorite treat, turned off her favorite television program. His palm pressed firmly against the child's head. She screamed feverishly, writhing under the angel's touch. Black smoke plumed from her eyes and nose and mouth. Her skin crackled and popped as though it were attached to an electric fence. The body dropped, useless and empty, to the chapel floor. He turned then, and gazed upon Sam Winchester, standing helpless at the other end of the room. Sam reached into his pocket and removed the long knife Ruby had once given him. They'd set the stage long ago, these angels and demons. It could all end now. Sam turned and plunged the dagger through her chest, ending Ruby's life with a snap, a crackle, and a scream.

Sam dropped to his knees on the floor of the chapel and crawled from his place to the bloody spot where his brother drooped across the Slayer. They'd intertwined their arms and legs so that even in death, in rigor mortis, they could not be torn apart. Dean had curled himself around her, his lips pressed delicately to her forehead, the last drops of blood wiped cleanly from his mouth with the back of his arm. Neither body rose to gasp for breath. The chapel floor had become their final resting place, the last protected seal their triumphant honor.

Castiel's hand felt heavy on his shoulder, but Sam didn't have the heart to brush the angel away. They stared at the bodies, their souls already departed to a land that neither of them might ever see. Castiel found that he had to clear his throat to speak. His eyes were automatically damp, though he'd never before felt the urge to weep.

"This is a gift, Sam. It comes with a price."

_Who is the lamb and who is the knife?_


End file.
